


Dragon Age Reddit Writing Prompts

by SerenityFalconNormandy



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: But not THAT Drunk Alistair, Dragon Age Quest: The Last Straw, Dread Wolf plays Diamondback with Blackwall, Drunk Alistair, F/M, Jealous Isabela, Just putting everything in one place, Lots of Angst, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mage Origin, Papa!Alistair, Reddit Writing Prompts, Some Fluff, Warden Mistress, papa!Fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-12-02 15:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 58
Words: 71,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11512398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityFalconNormandy/pseuds/SerenityFalconNormandy
Summary: A collection of one-shots written based on the Dragon Age Reddit's Weekly Writing Prompts thread. Slight AU/canon divergence for Alistair/Surana.Edited for grammar, content, and other annoyances on 1/8/2018 with the help of the wonderful IncreasingLight.





	1. What is Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your LI's pov on a moment that is testing your character.
> 
> Solas reflects on Fen'lath Lavellan's decision for Lord Livius Erimond's judgement.

His lips pressed together, the scar on his forehead disappeared in the groove between his brows as he watched Fen’lath take her seat in her throne. As with Alexius’s judgement, she eschewed her normal white tunic and buff pants for a black formal coat trimmed in silver. Her obsidian hair was caught back in an elegant twist of braids, face clean but for the purple ink branches of Mythal’s _vallaslin_ across the dark-tanned skin of her high cheekbones. The thick fan of her eyelashes touched her cheeks for a moment as she composed herself before nodding to Lady Montilyet.

 

Her inner circle had discussed this judgement at length, and while he understood Fen’lath’s logic for her decision, he still greatly disapproved. Blackwall, Cole, and Dorian stood with him, a silent protest. Vivienne, Iron Bull, and Cassandra stood at the front of the waiting crowd, offering their support. Madame de Fer would likely be insufferable for weeks, believing her influence over the Inquisitor was increasing.

 

Solas’s mind drifted as Josephine presented Livius Erimond formally for judgement, remembering their argument the previous night.

* * *

 

“Do you _really_ think that this was an _easy_ decision, Solas?” Fen’lath’s Fade green eyes flashed. “I’ve had _everyone_ visit me in the three days since we returned from Adamant to give me their opinion on Erimond’s judgement, and _none_ of the options available are what I consider the easy way out.”

 

“Kill him and be done with it. He cannot do anything more to anyone if he lies dead in the ground. I am sure that certain elements in the Inquisition are pushing for this punishment to balance out the recruitment of the mages at Redcliffe instead of forcibly conscripting them, Alexius’s recruitment as an agent of the Inquisition despite his actions, and _your_ being an apostate mage yourself to the eyes of those faithful to the Chantry, despite its weakened state.” He clasped his hands behind his back, a habit he had adopted when speaking with her at Haven. She dropped onto the lounging couch that had been sent as a gift from some Orlesian family, a bribe meant to gain her favor for something or another.

 

Fen’lath’s locks spilled over her shoulders, free from their braids for once, and hid her face as she dropped her head into her hands. “It’s _not_ that simple, Solas.”

 

His brow rose, silently waiting for her explanation. After the silence stretched uncomfortably, she straightened, and he noted the dark bruising under her eyes. An unwelcome feeling clenched his heart even as he resolved to monitor her dreams in the Fade that night to keep her sleep restful. The morning’s judgement would be stressful enough without the added misery of troubled sleep.

 

“He’s looking to become a martyr. It’s what he _wants_ , what he craves. If I give him that, I fear that we’ll never be able to curtail the Venatori. He would become their perfect recruitment tool. If I keep him alive and merely imprison him, it’s only a matter of time until they sneak someone in to break him out. The incident with Bull proved the Qunari could get agents in, so the Venatori probably can, too.”

 

“And what of Warden Blackwall’s proposed solution?” Even Blackwall’s proposal of sending Erimond to the Wardens was preferable to the punishment Madame de Fer had proposed so gleefully. Commander Cullen had looked ill at the thought, but had agreed to supervise if it was agreed upon.

 

“I may as well hand the remaining Wardens in Orlais back to the Venatori myself. All it will take is one dagger slipped between someone’s ribs, and Erimond will use blood magic to have them dancing the Remigold to his tune again.”

 

She flopped back on the lounging couch like a child. “I recruited the mages instead of conscripting them because I’m fairly certain that some of the missing Tranquil were used for blood magic to coerce Grand Enchanter Fiona into signing on with Alexius. I allowed Alexius to live because he was desperate for anything to keep Felix alive. He did the wrong things, terrible things, for the right reason. Erimond…”

 

“‘Erimond is an asshole.’” Solas’s imitation of Cole was near perfect. Cassandra hadn’t been able to contain a surprised burst of laughter at that statement. Even now, Fen’lath herself let out an achingly young sounding chuckle. She sat up, and again his heart clenched when she patted the cushions of the couch at her side. He hesitated for a moment, then sat next to her. She leaned against him, head tucking up under his chin as his arm came up around her shoulder. The cool scent of elfroot and the spicy heat of embrium drifted from her hair. He shouldn’t allow these moments, but since that kiss in the Fade, he found he couldn’t stop himself from letting them happen…much like the kiss itself.

 

Solas managed to keep himself from jumping in surprise when Fen’lath spoke again. “Exactly. He’s not remorseful at all. Much as the thought of doing this to him turns my stomach, it not only serves as a punishment he’ll actually fear, he will still be in a state to be put to work. He will do things that will help the Inquisition, and serve as a warning. Allowing Alexius to live made me look weak, too kind to the Venatori, even as the Inquisition has benefitted from his research. This… it’s not easy, but none of the choices I’ve had to make have been easy. I had to do what I thought was right every time.”

 

Cool, slender fingers gently touched his chin, drawing his gaze from where he had been staring into the distance to her earnest, searching eyes. “Please say you aren’t angry with me. That you understand why this is my choice. Because every alternative is worse.”

 

* * *

 

The gathered crowd was silent, watching her as she sat on her throne, the theater of the judgement coming to its climax. He understood, even if he didn’t approve. He understood more than she could ever know about every alternative being worse. Touching the jawbone around his neck, he hoped with all his being that the consequences of her choices were never as terrible as the consequences of his.

 

“You are the worst of us. The damage you have done is beyond reckoning.” Fen’lath paused for a breath; Solas wondered if anyone else noticed how it shook on the intake before she spoke, voice firm and determined.

 

“A mage’s crime, a mage’s punishment. Lord Livius Erimond of Virantium, I deny you death. _Tranquility_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've done some edits, as I've changed my canon Fen's appearance a little, and noticed a few spelling and grammar errors that were bugging me. Nothing major! 8/8/17


	2. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Black, blood, crying, stale air.
> 
> Marian Hawke breaks down in the aftermath of the Chantry explosion

“I will leave your… friend for you to deal with.”

Orsino had made it sound like the choice should be easy, especially with Sebastian there, outraged and demanding. Like the choice between keeping a litter of kittens or not. Of course, back in Lothering seven years ago- _Maker, had it already been seven years?-_ cats were always in demand to keep rats and mice out of the grain stores. Hawke knew she was thinking in circles, not wanting to focus on what she had done. Her fingers were black with the blood of the Templars attacking them. At least, she hoped that’s where the blood came from. Not for the first time that night, she nearly fumbled her staff as she remembered the feel of the blade sliding through Anders’s ribs. The Templar that was attempting to take her down mis-stepped, giving her time to smash a Stonefist into his face and knock him cold.

Fenris caught the last Templar’s blade with his own, sending them staggering back and then ended it with a quick slash to the gap between helmet and gorget. He turned to her, concern filling the olive eyes she loved so much. She had killed before. A dry, hysterical laugh escaped her as she choked on a breath of stale air filled with ash and Maker knew what else at that mental understatement. Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, who on her own had a kill count higher than the local Coterie could boast collectively, and this single death was the one that pushed her over the edge. Another wheezing laugh escaped her and tears let loose, streaming down her cheeks. After years of holding them in, only allowing herself to weep in front of Fenris the night her mother died, she couldn’t hold them anymore. Ten years of being strong for her family and friends, and seven of not being able to show any weakness lest she be crushed under Kirkwall’s heel poured out of her.

Varric and Aveline looked at each other with concern, Merrill let out a cooing noise of comfort, and Carver shifted from foot to foot, looking like he’d rather be anywhere on Thedas but there at that moment. Sebastian patted Valor on his square head, taking the mabari to watch for more Templars. Marian almost fell to her knees, but Fenris was there to catch her from cracking them against the flagstones.

“I thought he was my friend for so many years, Fenris. He _lied_ to me to get what he needed to kill all these people. People I was supposed to protect. I was their Champion.” Her voice cracked against his neck as he turned and enfolded her in his arms. “But I don’t hate him.”

“Hawke--”

“He was suffering. And I was afraid. What if this was just the beginning? Anders couldn’t control Vengeance anymore.” Her fingers clutched at his breastplate as she choked out, “If the war that’s coming didn’t go exactly as Vengeance planned, _what was next_?”

Marian felt Fenris tense, understanding what she meant. She wondered if, in his mind, he was seeing what she had seen as she faced Anders’s back with a dagger in her hand. The palace in Denerim going up as the Chantry had, the streets of Val Royeaux filled with bodies, rubble, and the smoke that made her eyes water and her lungs ache even now. And Anders, poor, lost, maddened Anders, being dragged from city to city by the twisted spirit in his head until he either dropped dead from Vengeance’s neglect of his physical needs, or he was found by Templars and beaten to death. “Alive or dead, mages everywhere will suffer. With Anders dead by my hand, it was relatively painless, and the only mages that Vengeance could have possessed certainly didn’t invite him in. This had to be enough.”

“How bad do you think it is, Hawke? Surely with it being so late at night, there wouldn’t have been _that_ many people in the Chantry.” Merrill flushed when Hawke’s head came up from Fenris’s shoulder.

Reigning in her temper so she didn’t bite Merrill’s head off, Hawke ground out, “The rubble from the explosion likely killed or injured plenty, Merrill. I imagine the Coterie and the other gangs in Lowtown will take the opportunity to cause all sorts of havoc as well.”

Finding a clean spot on her sleeve, Hawke scrubbed at her cheeks and put herself back in order. “We need to get going. The mages can’t hope to hold out against Meredith on their own for long.”

As they regrouped, Fenris pulled a handkerchief from Maker-knew-where and gently wiped her cheek again. At her curious glance, his bronze cheeks darkened and he muttered, “A smear of ash, nothing more.”

Marian gave him a shaky smile, cupping his cheek and momentarily admiring the contrast of her tawny skin against his bronze. Leaf green and olive eyes met through his silver bangs, and she whispered to him, “I am yours.”

He smiled, just for her, and replied, “And I am yours.”

Parting, Hawke hefted her father’s staff and pointed it at Varric, “If you write about this in any of your books, I’m hanging you outside the Hanged Man by your chest hair.”


	3. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A powerful desire demon offers the one thing your character wants most. 
> 
> Gwyneth Surana is confronted with her darkest wish. Or is it?

Not many people could say that they had ever seen Gwyneth Surana cry. As a mage in the Circle, tears gave the crueler Templars something to hold over your head. After the Blight, they would have been a weakness in the new Chancellor that the nobles of the Bannorn and the ambassadors from abroad would have exploited to the detriment of Ferelden.

 

Now, as she rode to the landing of the stairs to the Denerim palace, they flowed freely as she waved to the cheering crowds and smiled at Alistair. Her Alistair. He looked just as she remembered him when she had departed five years prior. The gold of his crown made the red in his strawberry blonde hair brighter, and his skin was paler from all the time spent indoors, but he still made her heart stutter as he had when she met him at Ostegar. From this distance she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel them on her. As soon as her horse’s hooves left cobblestones for slate flagstone, Gwyneth leapt from the saddle and ran up the steps. She paused, dropping into as deep a curtsey as her armored Warden’s robes would allow. “Your Majesty, I have returned after a long search with the cure for the Taint.”

 

“Gwyn.” Just her name from his lips, and he swept her up into his arms.

 

“Alistair!” They had agreed, after talking with Elissa, that it was best to keep their relationship with each other secret. An elven mage hero was one thing, anything beyond that was _quite_ another.

 

The crowds roared, and he whispered into her ear, breath fanning cool across her neck, “Stay with me, Gwyn. Be my wife.”

 

Surprised, she pulled back. “I _can’t_.  The people, the Chantry…”

 

“It’s all been worked out. You saved us from the Blight, you’ve been the steadiest Chancellor the kingdom’s had in _Ages_ , and you’ve saved my life more than once.” The smile he gave her as he touched his forehead to hers was the one that a certain sarcastic Grey Warden had given her when noting that the one good thing about the Blight was how it brought people together. He tugged on her flame-red braid gently. “I even got Teyrn Fergus and Arl Teagan to convince the Bannorn to agree to it.”

 

“Yes.” It was what she wanted most in the whole world. She had made Alistair king and convinced him to marry Elissa Cousland for Ferelden’s sake after the Mac Tirs had almost torn the kingdom apart with their plotting. Her homeland was recovering, albeit slowly, and as safe for mages and elves as it was possible to be with the state of things in Thedas, so she would never consider it a mistake. Elissa had been gone for six years, and no one could accuse them of not being respectful of her memory. “Yes, Alistair, I will.”

 

His lips felt strange, cold, but Gwyneth was so thrilled to be kissing Alistair again that she threw herself into it wholeheartedly anyway. The next few minutes seemed to pass in a whirl, Alistair announcing their engagement, being swept into the palace, and to a grand banquet. As she took her place at his side at the head of the trestle tables, she leaned to him and asked, “Ali, love, where are the children? I want to see Duncan, it’s been too long since I’ve seen him.”

 

“Duncan will be joining us momentarily, Gwyn. The others,” he stopped take his hand in hers and press those oddly cold lips to the back of her hand, “will _not_ be joining us.”

 

Gwyneth blinked in surprise. “Are they ill? I’ve missed them, too, Ali.”

 

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Gwyn.”

 

“ _Pretend_? I don’t understand. I love Elissa’s children. Just because I’m not their mother-”

 

“Duncan is first in my heart, after you, my love. Ah, there’s my boy!” Alistair rose and hurried around the trestle table, then scooped up his miniature that came running across the dining hall, flustered nanny hot on his heels. “Papa!”

 

“Mama’s back, Duncan! We need to welcome her!” The smile that had begun to form was frozen on Gwyneth’s face as Alistair turned, allowing the three-year old boy in his arms to wave at her. This was wrong. She’d been gone for five years, Duncan should be eight now… shouldn’t he?

 

“Is something wrong, Lady Gwyneth?”

 

She looked at Arl Teagan, bewildered, “He should be _older_.”

 

Teagan laughed, “Don’t say that, my lady! Why, in a few years, you’ll be lamenting that he’s not of an age to still want you to tuck him in and kiss him goodnight.”

 

“No, this is _wrong_. I’ve been gone for _five years_. He should be older now. And where is Moira? Where are Maric, Bryce, and Elissa?” Her voice was getting louder, carrying over the din of the hall, and Duncan’s eyes welled with tears. Alistair frowned, pulling the boy closer to him. He leaned over the table, as if he was going to say something. His eyes were wrong, not Alistair’s warm amber. They were cold, dead. Empty. Gwyneth shot out of her seat, spirit blade forming in her right hand and rising to the false Alistair’s chest. With her left, she cast a wall of flame around them.

 

“I can give you all of this,” the demon hissed, no longer with Alistair’s voice. “A cure, a life with him and your child. You would be a queen, your son a prince. The other woman’s children wouldn’t stand in his way. All you have to do is let me in, just for a little bit. Don’t you _miss_ him and your son? Don’t you want the best of everything for your boy?”

 

The spirit blade trembled, and Gwyneth let out a sob. Empty eyes met Stormheart eyes, and Alistair’s voice was back. “Gwyn, come back to us.”

 

She screamed and shoved the blade through the demon, sobbing as she tore herself from the Fade to the waking world. Nathaniel caught her a hairsbreadth from the campfire as she flung herself from the image of Alistair with her blade through his chest. Here, out in the wilderness, her tears were allowed to flow freely.

  



	4. Leverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Black, blood, crying, stale air. 
> 
> Why Grand Enchanter Fiona really turned the rebel mages over to Magister Alexius.

Fiona gritted her teeth, pressing her forehead to the flagstones and concentrating on fighting off the scream of pain building in her throat. How many hours had they been at this, and why had no one come to help her? _Surely_ one of the other Enchanters would have noticed the bastards bringing Tranquil after Tranquil into the room to slit their throats and use their blood, first to torture her, and now to try to bend her to their influence so they could present the rebel mages to their so-called Elder One. Long enough that the blood from the first one, a poor boy named Jowan, had gone tacky and black around her fingers.

 

She didn’t know what was worse, that so many of the other Circles had left their Tranquil behind, unguarded and defenseless for these Venatori to swoop in and scoop up, or that she had brought her Tranquil and the Kinloch Hold Tranquil to Redcliffe so they were readily available. 

 

She brought her head up at the scuff of leather soles on stone, seeing Alexius’s shoes through the blur of pained tears. Of course he wouldn’t dampen his connection to the Fade with blood magic, he had his lackeys doing that. The thud of a corpse distracted her from plotting to spit on the fine leather just beyond her nose, and Fiona couldn’t stop the choked sob that escaped when she saw that the latest victim had been Owain. He was the _only_ connection she had to her son. He had survived the fall and rebuilding of Kinloch Hold’s Circle ten years prior, and never seemed to tire of telling stories of the Hero of Ferelden and her companions. Even better, Owain hadn’t noticed how many questions she’d asked, not about Gwyneth Surana, but about Alistair. 

 

“Now, Grand Enchanter, are you prepared to bring the mages over to the Imperium, or do I have to lower myself even further?”

 

“Wh-what are you talking about?”  

 

Alexius sighed dramatically. “Why do you force me to this, Grand Enchanter? Am I so unreasonable in my offer?”

 

Tilting her head away from him, Fiona sucked in deep breaths of stale air. Another Tranquil was brought in as Alexius muttered and the coppery smell of fresh blood filled the air again. She bit through her lip as her joints creaked under the strain of resisting the painful, crushing force of the magic being used on her, resisting again for every man, woman, and child under her care. 

 

Then the Veil twisted and pulled in a way that it was never meant to, with a pop and a painful thrumming twang. A Fade-green flash filled the room, and the smell of burnt ether. Alexius was no longer standing in front of her, disappeared through whatever tear he'd opened. Only moments later, the Veil writhed again, wrenching a cry of agony from Fiona as it tore and flashed, charred bits of the Fade falling away as Alexius stood before her once again. He shook his robes out and snapped at one of the Vints standing to the side, “Get her into a chair.”

 

The other Venatori moved silently, bringing a chair over, then dragging her up and dumping her into it. Her short hair clung to her neck and the sides of her face, plastered there with rank sweat that burned her eyes and made them well up again. Alexius gestured, and the other Vints withdrew to the edges of the room.

 

“Now, Grand Enchanter. I am a reasonable man. You have something I need to help me save my son.” His voice was low. Whatever he had to say, he obviously wanted to keep it between the two of them. “I know you have a son of your own. As a parent, you would do anything to protect him, wouldn’t you? We Venatori have agents in the Denerim palace already, madam.”

 

“I--” A cold pit formed in her stomach. No.

 

“Not to mention your four lovely grandchildren. How old is Crown Princess Moira now, almost nine, I believe? The twins, Maric and Bryce, they just had their sixth birthday, of course. I remember hearing about the celebrations. And little Elissa, poor child, a toddler growing up without her mother. It would be a shame for her to grow up without her father as well. Or not at all.”

 

“How can you _do_ this? How can you threaten _children_ like this, as a father?” Fiona pleaded, hating the tremble in her voice, but she had to keep Alistair and his children, her _grandchildren_ , safe. 

 

It was the wrong thing to say. Alexius’s face twisted, and he shoved his face into hers. She could see the redness in the whites of his eyes, the broken veins and bruising from sleepless nights. “My son. Is. _Dying_. And you have what I need. To. _Save_. Him.”

 

“But--”

 

Alexius grabbed her by the front of her robe, pulling her off the chair and Fiona let out a terrified squawk. “I swear by everything I hold dear, if the next words out of your mouth are _not_ a vow to give the rebel mages over to me, I will have your elf-blooded _bastard_ flayed alive after being exposed for what he is and his brats tied up in a sack and thrown in the Drakon.”

 

She hadn’t been able to keep Alistair safe from being turned over to the Chantry, from the Wardens, from being shoved onto Maric’s bloody throne. In every way so far, she had failed him as a mother, but she could not fail him in this. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she whispered, “I accept your proposal, Magister Alexius.”

  
  



	5. I Will Not Allow It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Don't ever do that again. 
> 
> Fenris's point of view after Marian defeats the Arishok, and discovers she was injured.

“It appears that Kirkwall has a new Champion.”

 

Fenris watched Knight-Commander Meredith declare Hawke Champion of Kirkwall, olive eyes taking in the woman’s tight smile and clenched jaw. The Knight-Commander’s hand was so tight on the pommel of her sword that he could hear the leather wrapping creak, even with the celebrations. It was obvious to him, if no one else, that if she resented the praise and adulation that was preventing her from dragging Hawke to the Circle. His gauntlet creaked in response as his hand clenched, then released slowly. If Hawke went to the Kirkwall Circle, she was guaranteed to be Tranquil within days, if not hours of passing through the Gallows.

 

If anyone had told him when he came to Kirkwall that he would ever believe there was a mage that deserved to live outside the Circle, he’d have laughed in their face. If that person also told him the same mage would hold his heart in her hands and he would wish to actively prevent her being locked up in a Circle... he honestly didn’t know what he’d have done. Torn their heart out of their chest for lying to him, most likely. Nobles were crowding around her, and her eyes locked with his. A desperate ‘ _help me_ ’ was mouthed in his direction, and he straightened from the pillar he had been leaning against. Hawke pushed her way towards him, attempting to play nice with the nobles by nodding to the ones shoved out of her way, a pinched smile pasted on her face.

 

Fenris frowned, ignoring Varric’s comment about him brooding over a victory. To anyone who didn’t know Marian as he did, the pinched look would be a little thing, as would the way she was holding her halberd to her side instead of placing it in the sling on her back.  Was the dark gray fabric of her mantle darker there on her side? It was hard to tell where the red wrap belt (the very one from which he had torn the scrap that wound around his wrist) crossed her stomach and hips. In a way that would appear carefree to the casual observer, she flung her arm over his shoulder before gasping out, “Send someone for Anders.”

 

Without her arm blocking it, he could see the tear in Marian’s side. The Arishok’s blade must have cut her near in _half_ and her supply of potions and the Heal the abomination had taught her had kept her from dying during the fight.

 

Aveline’s panicked shove gave Donnic a five-stair head start on the trip to Hanged Man, their agreed-upon meeting place in case of trouble. Fenris supposed that if a horde of rampaging qunari didn’t count as trouble, nothing would. If the abomination wasn’t there, he would be at Hawke’s estate. Marian was leaning heavily against him on her uninjured side, halberd banging around as he hustled her down the stairs and her grip on it became weaker. Aveline grabbed the halberd away and snapped, “Fenris, _carry_ Hawke before she falls and makes it worse.”

 

“I wouldn’t. I only make things worse in _unexpected_ ways. Falling is _totally_ expected.” Her voice was sing-songy, and she stumbled on the last stair as her bad luck with stairs kicked in. He caught her, then scooped her up as Aveline had suggested. Varric, serious for once, muttered, “She doesn’t look so good.”

 

He was right. Marian’s normally tawny skin was turning ashen. He picked up his pace, running as fast as he could, Varric and Aveline hot on his heels, praying to the Maker he still wasn’t sure he believed in that he wasn’t tearing the wound more. “Marian, stay with me.”

 

Her breath was warm against his neck as she whispered, “I hear Father and Mother calling me. And Bethany.”

 

“ _No_! I _will not_ allow it!”

 

Orana let out a terrified shriek as Fenris kicked the door of the Hawke estate open. Bodhan brandished a frying pan at him, then shrank back, “Oh, Messere Fenris! Mistress Hawke!”

 

“ _Not_ enchantment.”

 

“ _Not now_ , Sandal! Mistress Hawke is hurt! Help Orana boil water, Messere Anders will be here soon.”

 

Fenris ignored them while he raced up the stairs to Hawke’s room, taking them two at a time. Valor charged up after him, barking and whining. Gently, he laid Marian on the bed, pressing his hand to her side. Hot, wet, too wet. He shoved the crying mabari’s nose out of the way as Valor whined louder. Tearing his gauntlets off, Fenris began unbuckling and unwrapping what he could with trembling fingers to see the actual wound. The fabric belt went sailing, and when the gray fabric of the coat parted… “Varric! Get the abomination here _now_!”

 

“The ‘abomination’ is here already, now _move_.” Anders shoved Fenris aside, crate of lyrium potions rattling as it skidded to a stop next to the bed, and called to Bodhan for hot water and bandages. He went pale when he saw the wound, and the ashen tone of Marian’s face. “ _No_ , don’t you _dare_!”

 

Fenris stumbled back, torn between snarling at the mage and hovering over Marian. Aveline decided for him, pulling him out of the room and dragging him to the library. “Give him room to work, Fenris.”

 

He slumped into the chair in front of the fireplace, silver head falling into his hands. Valor set his large, square head on his knee, whining and pawing at his armored shin. Fenris set a hand between the mabari’s ears, feeling the prickle and burn of tears in his eyes. After all Marian had done for him, he had _abandoned_ her, and he still didn’t know how to explain himself. What if she _died_? The red scrap he’d taken from her belt mocked him. Valor whined again, earning a gentle pat.They sat there, elf and mabari, until Sebastian’s soft brogue cut in. “I will pray for Hawke. Do you wish to join me, Fenris?”

 

Fenris knelt next to Sebastian, not paying attention to the words, but his friend’s presence and the cadence of his voice was a comfort. If… _when_ Marian recovered, he would take Sebastian up on his offer to visit him to talk. Anything to straighten things out in his head, to be _worthy_ of her, after mucking it up as he had, no matter how long it took. He heard Merrill clatter in with Carver, who made his presence known with a bellow for an update on Marian’s condition, followed by a yelp and Orana scolding him to keep his voice down. _Brave girl, slapping a Templar._ Eventually, most of them ended up grouped around Sebastian, heads bent. If they weren’t praying, they were at least thinking of Hawke, Fenris hoped. Donnic and Aveline held hands as they knelt, Carver fidgeted next to Merrill, and Varric ran up and down the stairs in shifts with Bodhan, bringing hot water or clean rags from Orana to Anders, and taking down pots with the dirtied rags.

 

“It’s done, Hawke will live. I need to rest.” Anders stumbled out of Hawke’s room and wove into the guest room.

 

Fenris shot up and hurdled over Sebastian, only slowing when he stopped next to the bed. Marian was asleep, black hair fanned out on her pillow and comforter pulled up to her shoulders. He gently worked her hand out, trusting the others would give him a few moments to be alone with her. Resting his forehead against the back of her hand, he ground out, “I will not let you fight alone again for as long as I live, for any reason, Marian Doraline Hawke.”

 

“ _Don’t_.”

 

“Hawke?” Fenris looked up in surprise. Marian’s eyes, the green of spring leaves, were cracked open, and she had a grimace on her face.

 

“Don’t _ever_ do that again.”

 

“I--what?” She didn’t want him to fight at her side?

 

“I _hate_ my middle name, and I don’t know how you found it out, but if you use it _ever_ again, Fenris, I swear by my pretty floral knickers, _I will end you_.”


	6. Unified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Don't ever do that again. 
> 
> Fen'lath Lavellan is forced to take Vivienne and Dorian to task after an improper public conversation.

“Vivienne, we can continue this dance forever, if you wish.” Dorian smiled and steepled his fingers, knowing Madame de Fer would not be able to resist his needling. Fine sport to accompany the fine meal they were finishing. Pity the drink was less than stellar.

 

“Presuming _both_ of us are capable.” The delicate flick of her napkin precluded a gentle pat on her lips, and she gestured to one of the Skyhold servants to remove the remains of her meal.

 

“I mock Orlesian frippery and nonsense,” he gestured at her elaborate gown and horned headdress, then swept a hand to himself, “You mock Tevinter decadence and tyranny.”

 

She rolled her eyes at him. Dorian leaned forward raising a brow, “There is, however, something _far_ more important we should remember.”

 

“Just what might that be?” Vivienne arranged her skirts in preparation to retreat to her balcony above the hall.

 

“At least we’re not _Antivan_.” He sat back with a smile, which immediately became a grimace while sipping on the vinegar the Skyhold steward insisted was wine.

 

“Quite right. Thank the Maker.” Vivienne rose with a laugh and turned, then stopped dead. Josephine continued towards her office, face carefully blank with a deep flush of color on her cheeks, and the tap of her heels was decidedly agitated. Fen’lath, who had apparently also heard their exchange, had a stormy expression on her face. Dorian swallowed when she snapped out, “I want to speak with both of you. _Right_. _Now_.”

 

A rather uncomfortable pit formed in his stomach as they followed her to her quarters, Dorian was quite unused to Fen’lath being upset with him. Her back was stiff, and her steps clipped. Vivienne seemed unperturbed, gliding up and casting a critical eye over Fen’s quarters, nose wrinkling at the preference for Marcher and Fereldan decor. In full Inquisitor mode, though Dorian supposed she would consider it Keeper mode, Fen’lath spun to face them. She clasped her hands behind her back just so. She was spending too much time with Solas and picking up his mannerisms. It was endearing, really. “Do either of you realize _how hard_ Josephine works for the Inquisition?”

 

“My dear--”

 

“You _do not_ have my permission to call me ‘my dear’, _Vivienne_ , nor do you have _permission_ to call me ‘darling’. You will address me as Inquisitor Lavellan or Inquisitor from now on.” Vivienne stiffened, lips pressing together and eyes glittering dangerously. Dorian noticed the way her hand twitched at her side. Any other elf speaking to her that way probably would have been slapped three ways from Sunday. He became uncomfortably aware that back home when he was younger… and shamefully even more recently and not so young, he would likely have done the same.

 

“She certainly does not have to work as hard as she does. I fully acknowledge that acting as our ambassador and chief diplomat is _much_ harder because I am not only a Dalish elf, but a mage. I happen to know that many days, she does not leave her desk for meals, nor does she go to sleep until well after the midnight bells, and yet she is up and back at her desk at _sunrise_. Mocking her homeland is _not acceptable_. Doing so in full hearing of the Orlesians, Fereldans, and others staying here in Skyhold adds _another_ layer of difficulty to her job, _especially_ coming from you two. Don’t _ever_ do that again. We must present a united front in the face of Corypheus and his forces.” Fen’lath paced, looking so tense Dorian was sure she was going to pop like an over-tightened lutestring at any moment. “Vivienne, since you enjoy such a _prestigious_ position in Orlesian society, you are going to ensure all things Antivan are fashionable next season in Orlais.”

 

“If I must, Inquisitor.” She inclined her head, then turned to leave.

 

“Oh, and Vivienne.” The other mage paused at the top of the stairs leading down to the hall. “You must credit Josephine as your inspiration whenever you’re asked about your sudden interest in Antiva. Make things easier for her, and by extension, the Inquisition.”

 

“Yes, Inquisitor.” Oh, the resentment in Vivienne’s voice.

 

Dorian knew that Madame de Fer wouldn’t leave the Inquisition over this, they were simply too powerful a political force to turn away from at this point. But, by insisting that the attention be directed to Josephine, Fen’lath had masterfully turned the political cache to be had from Vivienne to the Inquisition. Much as she complained about it and expressed her distaste for it, Fen was certainly becoming an excellent player of The Game. It would serve them well when Josephine needed to bargain with Orlais to move their forces from Skyhold through the Western Approach to Adamant Fortress.

 

Once Vivienne had departed, and _slammed_ the door in her pique no less, Fen turned tired eyes on him, slumping onto the only bit of Orlesian decor in her room, a newly-arrived lounging couch in a rather ghastly shade of green. “I am so _disappointed_ in you, Dorian.”

 

“I… know. It was beneath me, especially with how welcoming you have been to the ‘Vint’. I’m hardly in a position to throw stones.” He grimaced and sat down across from her. “I expect I have my own penance to do.”

 

“You do, and I think you’ll find it’s your own personal level of hell.”

 

“ _Egads_ , are you going to let the Bull or Solas _dress_ me?”

 

“Worse.” Fen’s mouth quirked into a smile. “I’m asking the Skyhold steward to bring in wine from the smaller Antivan vineyards. You’re going to help him find the best one to import to serve to guests of the Inquisition. He won’t be starting with the _good_ small vineyards.”

 

“So I’m going to be drinking quite a lot of vintages that should be used as vinegar or a solvent for your apostate’s frescoes in the rotunda. _Hurrah_.” The tips of her ears went a rather charming shade of rose at calling Solas ‘her apostate’. Dorian paused, “We’re going to be the sole importer of a specific Antivan wine, and the Iron Lady is set to make Antiva’s imports all the rage in Orlais. That’s an awful lot of money and political influence in bottle form I’m in charge of finding.”

 

“Then you’d better do your very best, Dorian.”

 

“My darling, _I am_ the best, what else can I do?”


	7. You Change Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The first kiss- Flesh out the in game moment or rewrite it. 
> 
> Fen'lath Lavellan and Solas take a little stroll through Haven to chat.

“It seems you hold the key to our salvation," Solas paused, smiling at Fen'lath, "You had sealed it with a gesture, and right then, I felt the whole world change.” Solas was an intense speaker under normal circumstances, but right now, it was overwhelming and so much more than praises sung for the ‘Herald of Andraste’. This was about her, Fen’lath, not the divine being the _shems_ believed her to be.

 

Fen’lath felt color bloom across her cheeks and the tips of her ears, thankful the deep tan of her skin hid it, warmth flooding her chest at the way Solas looked at her as he spoke. And other areas, if she was going to be entirely, one-hundred percent honest with herself. Like she was the most beautiful, intriguing thing he’d ever seen. She couldn’t breathe for a moment before she finally managed, “Felt the whole world… _change_?”

 

“A figure of speech.” Solas’s own cheeks and ears flushed, his eyes flicked down and away with a gentle smile. They came back up, full of something she couldn’t decipher and, for once, unguarded, their stormy gray-blue a shade that couldn’t decide between either color. As her heart fluttered, Fen sauntered closer to him, hoping it looked confident and took the leap. “I’m aware of the metaphor. I’m more interested in ‘ _felt_.’”

 

To her surprise, instead of his eyes narrowing and the walls coming up like she had expected, he held her gaze and murmured, “You change… _everything_.”

 

Suddenly shy, Fen dropped her eyes, feeling the flush crawl down her ears and cheeks to her neck. “Sweet talker.”

 

Looking back up at Solas through her lashes, her heart dropped. Solas was turning away, the blush in his cheeks starting to fade as he slowly pulled into himself. Acting on impulse, she reached up and cupped the side of his chin, tilting his face back towards her. Eyes wide, breathless with her own daring, she tilted her face up and pressed their lips together. It was quick, but Solas’s lips were so soft. Firm and warm, too. Feeling flustered and unsure, Fen pulled back, even though she could have sworn that for a moment his mouth followed hers. She started to turn away, the embarrassment at the thought that she might have rushed things or misinterpreted turning the happy flush to shame.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Fen saw Solas shaking his head. She was caught in a whirlwind as his hands landed on her shoulders and pulled her back to him, then slid down her back to her hips. His mouth _devoured_ hers. It was the only way to describe the way the way he bit at her lips before his tongue plunged in. The grip on her hips shifted, sliding down to her bottom, pulling her closer to him as his thigh slipped between hers, pushing their pelvises closer together, and... _Creators have mercy_ … Her fingers dug into the soft lambswool of his tunic. Solas’s heart was thundering just as hard as hers.

 

They parted, Fen still clinging to him, _I think he just blew my brain out the top of my head, Holy Mythal_ … Solas shook his head again before leaning in for another kiss. Her fingers had just left his tunic, lightly brushing his jaw, when he pulled back, rasping out, “We shouldn’t! It isn’t right. Not even _here_.”

 

Flustered, trying to follow, she managed to fumble out, “What do you mean, even here?”

 

“Where did you think we _were_?” The veneer of collected calm had slammed firmly into place, although not without a new softness to Solas’s eyes and smile.

 

“This isn’t real.” Fen turned to take in the surroundings she had only glanced at before, when she had been enthralled by Solas. If this were the real Haven, all the tents and buildings would have been a wreck. It had been buried under snow and whatever other scree would have been unleashed by the avalanche. They were in the Fade.

 

“That’s a matter of debate… probably best discussed after you,” he leaned in close, the warmth of him reaching to her even in the dream, “ _Wake up_.”

 

* * *

 

Fen’lath sat up with a gasp. The heat and… everything else just from being kissed, _devoured_ , by Solas still ran through her body. After taking a few moments to compose herself and make sure her legs could hold her, she went to the balcony windows, throwing open the heavy curtains. The sun was peering over the Frostbacks, whereas when she had gone to speak to Solas, it had been almost midnight. She scrunched up her nose. He’d probably traced a sleep rune on her neck when she’d walked in front of him to exit the rotunda, the crafty _git_. She was still wearing the clothes she’d been wearing the previous day, but he’d tucked her carefully into a blanket with extra warming runes cast into it to ward off the relentless chill even the fires couldn’t fully drive out, judging by the mess of fabric she’d left kicked all over the bed.

 

Re-casting the runes and wards that kept her wrapped feet comfortable and shoe-free, and a quick spell to refresh her clothes, Fen skipped down the stairs and hustled to the rotunda. Solas was shuffling through his sketches, a paintbrush clenched between his teeth as he glanced between the parchments and the walls. Spotting Fen, he set the delicate curls of art on the desk and laid the brush aside. He gave her a smile that had just a hint of brash cockiness to it, sending a shiver through her. “Sleep well?”

 

“When I asked to talk to you, I didn’t think we’d be doing it in the Fade,” Fen felt a blush creeping across her cheeks and the tips of her ears, “Or, for that matter, _doing it_ in the Fade.”

 

Solas laughed, ending on a dorky little snort that made her heart melt. _Ugh, why does he have to be so ludicrously adorable?_ He recomposed himself, his pale skin unable to hide the flush that touched his ears and neck. Clearing his throat, he smoothly said, “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered, and I should not have encouraged it.”

 

 _Oh, really?_ Fen adopted his ‘nerding out about the Fade’ pose and drew closer widening her eyes innocently. “You say that, but _you’re_ the one who started with tongue.”

 

“I did _no_ such thing.” Solas, cool, collected, rarely emotional Solas, _spluttered_.

 

“Oh, does it not count if it’s only _Fade_ -tongue?” She couldn’t keep the laughter out of her voice, even as Solas wrinkled his nose at her. His eyes were soft, though, even if more wary than she would have liked after sharing something so breathtaking.

 

“It has been a long time, and things have always been easier for me in the Fade.” He shifted uncomfortably, and she softened from her flirty pose. He had been alone, chased off by hostile Dalish clans and avoiding the _shems_ and their Templars, for who knew how long. Fen reached out and tentatively squeezed his hand. His mouth quirked in a half-smile, and laced his fingers with hers. His eyes flicked down at their joined hands. “I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

 

The tremor in his voice decided it for Fen, more than the clutching that told her he was worried she would let go. She stroked her thumb across his knuckles, “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

 

“I… may be.” He raised their joined hands, his lips a whisper against the skin on the back of her hand. “Yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are… considerations.”

 

Please, let him be thinking of the same _considerations_ she was! “Take all the time you need.”

 

“Thank you.” He took his hand back, but pressed a kiss to her palm before curling her fingers over it. “I am not often thrown by things that happen in dreams. But I am _reasonably_ certain we are awake now, and if you wish to discuss anything, I would enjoy talking.”

 

She gently flicked at the parchment on the desk. “Show me what you’re thinking of putting on the wall next. I’d love to see it.”

 

His face lit up, and he placed a warm hand on her hip, drawing her close to his side as he pointed to a sketch done in graphite and filled in with colored ink, “See here, this is the newest one I’m thinking of…”

 


	8. Of Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your character just woke from a nightmares and is still terrified. What was the nightmare, and the aftermath. 
> 
> Marian Hawke is plagued by a nightmare, and Fenris wakes her to comfort her. Set after the events of Dragon Age II.

“ _I’ve searched far and wide to find you again, beloved, and no force on this earth will part us…_ ”

 

Marian writhed next to Fenris, sweat dampening her brow as she whimpered in her sleep, “Mother…”

 

The restless movement woke the elf, and he rose up, ever alert with lyrium tattoos flaring, first checking to ensure they were secure in the little holding Varric and Sebastian had secured for them on the outskirts of Starkhaven. No Seekers were breaking down the doors, likewise no Templars or mages of any sort. Fenris peered down at Marian in the darkness, taking in the distress written plain on her face and in the little cries slipping out of her.

 

“ _Don’t fret darling… Now I’m free, I get to see Bethany again, and your father…_ ”

 

Fenris gently grasped Marian’s shoulder, whispering to her, “Marian, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

 

“ _My little girl has become so strong…_ ”

 

Tears slipped down her cheeks, and fingers twisted in his sleep shirt. He wrapped his arms around her, as much as he was able with her belly between them. The baby moved, a kick to his side to admonish him for letting its mother remain in such a state of distress for so long. Rocking Marian, he murmured against her dark hair, “Wake up, I am here with you.”

 

“ _I love you. You’ve always made me so proud…_ ”

 

His lips smoothed over her her damp cheeks when he felt her tense, awareness coming over her as she slipped from the Fade to the waking world. A wail slipped out of Marian, and her shoulders shook as she stuttered out, “Mother… it was the day she... the day that _monster_ …”

 

Fenris made soothing rumbling noises to comfort her as he tried to think of something to say. As when Leandra had passed, he was not good with comforting words for her, but he would be there for Marian until his last breath left him. He did not like to think of those particular three years. Not just because of Leandra, but because he had been unable to process how he felt, and had all but left Marian alone to deal with the loss and her grief by herself. Gamlen had been lost in his own grief, and Carver had been an unhelpful, accusing, and thankfully mostly absent git, and the abomination had been trying to worm his way into her heart with ever-increasing desperation.

 

“I still do not know what to say, Marian. I don’t think I’ll _ever_ know the words that will ease your hurts, but I am here.” The baby shifted between them, a solid reminder that they weren’t in her bed back in Kirkwall, that Fenris wouldn’t be leaving in the morning to spend three years looking at her with longing, but never reaching out to touch her.

 

“Thank you, Fenris. Just being here helps.” She rolled to her other side in his arms, not without some grumbling and grousing, and intertwined her fingers with his, then rested their joined hands on their child. Marian’s voice trembled as she spoke, “I think we need to send to Varric, have Aveline bring Carver and Merrill here. It’s getting close to time.”

 

Fenris frowned into the dark, “Why do you sound scared, Marian?”

 

“What if I can’t protect the _baby_?” A sob punctuated the last word, and he dropped a kiss onto her neck as she shook, “I couldn’t save Father, or Bethany, or Mother. Maker knows how Gamlen’s still alive. I have nightmares too often of what might have happened if I’d taken Carver with us to the Deep Roads. I keep seeing him with Blight sickness, and I have to… and then it mixes up with Mother, and they’re both lurching along like broken puppets, and Carver just sneers about being in my shadow while Mother wails about Bethany and Father and asks me why I _couldn’t save_ them.”

 

The shudders wracked through her and by association, him. Fenris muttered, “Knowing the abomination, if Carver had gotten himself bitten by a darkspawn, he probably would have been able to pull a whole Grey Warden camp out of his arse just to please you. They would have known what to do to save him.”

 

She laughed and hiccuped out a sob at the same time, and relief flooded him. Marian tucked her head under his chin and cuddled herself closer back against his chest. “Carver should still be here. This will be his niece or nephew, and about the only family we have left. If it’s a girl, I want him to choose her middle name.”

 

“Oh? You’re deciding on names without me?” He tried to sound stern, but in all honesty, he was relieved. He was still so unused to the idea of being a father that choosing names felt overwhelming.

 

She snorted at him, “You asked me to, you arse.”

 

“So I did. Have you decided?” Fenris gently extracted his hand from hers and brushed at her face, making sure all traces of her earlier outburst were gone from her soft cheeks.

 

“For a boy, Leto Malcolm. Our Leto will have everything you should have had.” He didn’t say anything, his throat suddenly thick with emotion. “If it’s a girl, Maureva. The Templar that helped Father escape from the Circle was named Maurevar Carver. Obviously, it’s where Carver got his name, and… I think it would make Carver happy, and Father, if he can see us from the other side.”

 

“Carver will choose the middle name?” It came out rougher than normal, but Marian didn’t seem to notice.

 

“Yes, between Bethany and Leandra. Mother told me once after Father died that Marian was Father’s twin sister. Bethany was his mother. We’re all named after people who were important to Father. I want our baby to be named for people who were important to me. I wish they were here to see their grandchild. Bethany would love to be an aunt, too." Her fingers trailed over his arms, making the lyrium markings glow in the dim light.

 

“I will protect our child and you. You will _never_ be alone in this, Marian.”

 

“Thank you, Fenris.” She went silent then, and after a few minutes he felt her relax back into sleep. He stayed awake, alert for any signs of another nightmare. Fenris had vowed to protect her, and so he would.


	9. The Night Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The last night of your OC before the Conclave or before they left for the Conclave. 
> 
> Fen'lath Lavellan spends the night before the Conclave in contemplation.

Fen’lath Lavellan checked over the gear the clan’s hunters had helped her pinch from the _shems_ ’ camp one last time, fiddling with a buckle here, a strap there. She shot a glare at the boots she would be required to wear to fit in, and set them aside along with the thick socks Ghelwyn assured her would make them bearable for feet used to feeling the earth and pliable leather wrappings. Mythal help her if she needed to draw a rune and her hands were occupied, she wasn’t sure she had the control to use the heel of a boot instead of her toes.

 

The helm of stiffened fabric with its covering hood was the most important. The oddly shaped flaps that covered the cheeks would hide her _vallaslin_ and conceal that she was not one of the elves serving as a scout to these southern _shems_ , but a Dalish clanswoman. She sent a prayer of thanks to the All-Mother that she had chosen the most simple of Her markings when she came of age, the simple branching vines just sweeping across her cheekbones. It had allowed her this small escape from Keeper Deshanna’s well-meaning, but tiring haranguing, as every other volunteer in the clan had _vallaslin_ that would have shown regardless and given them away.

 

_“It is beyond time you bonded, da’len. The Creators saw fit to bless you with fire and lightning, and a control over them I’ve not seen or heard of in my years as Keeper. You should have children of your own by now, to grow the clan and if They are kind, share your gifts with the People. When I am gone, it will be harder for you to act as Keeper if you still have babes on the breast.”_

 

Fen wrinkled her nose as she gazed into her fire. Her clanmates certainly _didn’t_ see her as a gift, although her magic was appreciated when it benefitted them. Her father, a mage and, at the time Deshanna’s First, had ruffled more than a few feathers when he’d refused to bond with anyone but her mother, bringing a mage from Ghilain into Lavellan. The Templars of the Ansberg and Markham Circles were far from where Lavellan roamed near Wycome, but the worry that the _shem_ Chantry would take it upon themselves to ‘control’ the People’s mage population was always there.

 

Her mother had put the clan’s mages  at seven then, and the parents of the mage children had resented that their babes would likely be sent to other clans rather than stay with them, simply to appease the _shems_. Deshanna’s Second… well… he’d not taken Fen’lath’s birth or coming into magic well _at all_ , especially when Deshanna decided that he would be sent to another clan to continue his apprenticeship, and Fen’lath would stay.

 

The Mahariel hunter her father had been meant to bond with had departed to clan Sabrae instead, and bonded with one of theirs. If she still lived when the clan relocated from the south to the Sundermount… _Poor woman._

 

A gust of frost-laden wind cut through Fen’s cloak and the warming runes she’d cast on it. She shuddered against the bite, and glanced at the book that peeped out of her pack. _The Tale of the Champion_. One had to wonder how much Tethras had plucked from his imagination-  _Asha’bellanar appearing, honestly!-_  and how much was fact. If what he’d written about clan Sabrae’s fate was true, Fen needed to prove that she had been right to volunteer to spy on this _shem_ Conclave, and it had been right for the Keeper to put such faith in her. She wasn’t _quite_ the outsider that Merrill seemed to be, but then, Deshanna tried to support her in most cases, rather than smother her.

 

 _“If this is indeed what happened, da’len,” A weathered hand tapped the leather-bound tome, “Marethari brought the destruction of Sabrae about herself. If the creature had tried to escape, the_ shem _Champion is a powerful mage who had faced down a demon previously while she herself supervised. Merrill and she would likely have destroyed it easily, especially since the Champion  brought her love and the apostate mage along. And then to claim it is because of Merrill! She claims it as a consequence of Merrill’s actions, absolving herself of all responsibility, instead of owning that it was interfering like an overprotective_ mamae! _Treating her First like a babe barely out of swaddling cloths is unconscionable.”_

 

Of course, the Champion and the apostate mage were a large reason why Fen’lath was huddled in her warmest cloak hiding on the outskirts of the _shem_ encampment below their Temple of Sacred Ashes. Their Divine had called their Templars and mages together to try and end the madness that had gripped most of Thedas, flooding out from Kirkwall like a torrent from a broken dam that threatened even the Dalish, though most clans either couldn’t or wouldn’t see it.

 

Another burst of icy air made her long for the forests of the Marches. If the Creators were kind, the _shems_ would quit their squabbling quickly and she would be back home and warm in less than a month. Of course, they’d never shown any interest in being kind to her _before_ , considering which of them seemed to have shown the most interest in her since birth. As if to emphasize the Creators’ general disdain for her, a chorus of wolves howled from the treeline. Fen’lath sighed and dropped her head into hands that were just this side of frozen. Time to set about appeasing the children of Fen’Harel.

 

She crept to the edge of the firelight and waited. The pack passed, pelts sleek in the light. The alpha male watched Fen’lath, ears perked and eyes alert. The fine hairs stood on the back of her neck, as though more than just the pack observed her. “ _Mythal’enaste_ , _fen’len_ , _hahren_ of your pack. _Fen’Harel ghilas ma_. Pass my camp in peace, _falon_ , and _dareth shiral_.”

 

The little ritual had started with an over curious child barely old enough to pronounce some of the words as she clung to one of the statues of Fen’Harel that guarded the edges of Lavellan’s camp. Deshanna insisted on the child Fen had been protecting the clan from the Betrayer, who seemed to love her so well. Rather than fearing the wolves in the forests, and shrieking in fear at the tales of Fen’Harel, the little elven child with large Fade-green eyes and thick obsidian braids would instead tilt her head and ask question after question. Deshanna would get exasperated, her father would laugh and shake his head, the Second and _hahren_ both would shout and yell.

 

The last of the wolves melted away, and Fen’lath faced the inevitable. Creeping back, she crawled into her tent and set protective and alarm wards. A powerful gust of wind howled through, rattling the canvas and making her shriek in terror, as well as chilling her to the bone. She set as many warming runes as she could handle, then rolled up in her blankets as tightly as possible. Sleep took her quickly, and she dreamed.

_A giant wolf guarded her camp, watchful and alert, six red eyes unblinking in their vigil._


	10. When Worlds Collide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the Dragon Age Reddit thread "How screwed/saved would Thedas be if your Warden, Champion, Inquisitor, and favorite companion had to save the world together?" 
> 
> I started giggling to myself and thought "Alistair is busy being King Dad, Fenris is busy being Broody Dad, and Solas... is Solas. Fen would probably drag Dorian along to play off Marian for the sass."

“I can do this _by myself_ , Dorian!  I swear, you’re a worse mother hen than _Bull_!”

 

“My darling Fen, if you’d just let me help you buckle on your prosthetic this morning like I offered--”

 

“I can do it, it’s fine!  It’s just stuck in the reins, and you know Stormhart doesn’t like anyone else getting too close.”

 

As if in agreement, the gigantic red hart let out an ear-piercing, trumpeting bleat, causing all four mages to clap hands over their ears, though Fen’lath was at a disadvantage without her prosthetic and could only cover one. The horses the other three had been riding danced away from the grumpy hart. The Ferelden Forder, Thornwood, nearly pulled Gwyneth Surana off her feet as she grabbed his reins. Marian Hawke just laughed as she chased after the Vint’s Asaarash and her own Free Marches Ranger.

 

Gwyneth rubbed her temple with her free hand. _Why had she missed this again?_   She’d done her share of world saving during the Blight, and in bringing the cure for the Taint back for the Wardens and Alistair. She could be at home in Denerim with him and the children. But no, she had to go and be _logical_ and tell Alistair that it was her duty to assist the Champion of Kirkwall, the Inquisitor, and the co-leader of the Lucerni.

 

At the moment, the Dalish woman was trying to extract the prosthetic arm Dagna, brilliant arcanist that she was, had created for her from the reins of her hart. From where Gwyn was standing, it looked like one of the anchoring straps had broken, so maybe the assistance in being buckled in wouldn’t have prevented the impromptu stop after all.

 

Marian came tramping out of the underbrush, disgruntled horses trailing behind her. Leaves and twigs stuck haphazardly out of the tumble of her black hair, and her leaf-green eyes sparkled merrily. At moments like this, the resemblance to Solona Amell was staggering, despite the difference in coloring. “At least we don’t have to walk, right?”

 

“Maker, you’re a _more_ optimistic Sol.”

 

She gave Gwyn a wobbly smile. “It’s an act, I assure you. Pretty much the _only_ thing that keeps the _internal_ monologue of endless screaming from becoming an _external_ monologue of endless screaming.”

 

“Sounds like every meeting I’ve ever had with the Bannorn. I swear _Andraste_ could appear before them and they’d have her tearing her hair out and begging for the pyre again in less than ten minutes.”

 

The taller mage giggled at the casual blasphemy from the prim-and-proper looking elven Warden-Commander turned Chancellor. A loud squawk turned them back to the Inquisitor and Magister. Dorian was flapping his last clean handkerchief at the hart in outrage, “He _bit_ me!”

 

“ _Bull_ bites you all the time.” There was a touch of laughter in Fen'lath's voice, whereas before there had only been distress.

 

“I am _not even_ going to dignify that with an explanation of the difference. _Maddening_ woman.” He managed to get around to the side of the hart and grab a rein, and Fen pinned the prosthetic between her body and the shortened arm. Nimble fingers unknotted leather straps and rein, then pulled it free with a triumphant cry. Everyone winced away as Stormhart bleated again in response.

 

Shaking her head, Fen’lath rubbed her neck using the prosthetic gripped in her hand. “Well, this seems to be going well. How far into the trip are we?”

 

Dorian’s perfectly shaped eyebrow rose. “We left Skyhold an hour and a half ago. So, by my count… _an hour an a half_.”


	11. Crossed Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: DA Inquisition: The last night of your OC before the Conclave or before they left for Conclave. 
> 
> Where was the Champion of Kirkwall the night before that *other* giant explosion, anyway?

“Do you _really_ think it’s a good idea, Marian? If they catch us…”

 

“If they catch _me_ , Fenris. _You’ll_ leave me and take Maureva. Get back to Starkhaven as quickly as possible, and Sebastian will protect you both.”

 

The elf growled, but Marian saw how he clutched the precious bundle that kept their daughter warm and safe from the biting cold of the Frostbacks closer to his chest. Valor let out a whuffle of noise, as if affirming he would hold Fenris to the plan. This whole trip had been a big risk, but she _needed_ to know that Varric was safe, too. Fenris and she had taken precautions, of course. Zevran had contacted them after the Seeker and the Left Hand had taken her favorite dwarf, since he was their go-between and convenient diverter of Sister Leliana’s scouts, and helped arrange their cover.

 

The Crow armor Fenris wore wasn’t complete, but it did manage the nigh-impossible task of covering the markings on his arms and torso without them glowing through. In the chill of the Frostbacks, the scarf that covered the lower half of his face was sufficient to hide the ones on his neck and chin as long as they didn’t get into fight.  Fenris had also let his hair grow out, and braided as it was, his signature silver hair and pointed ears were masked by the hood of his cloak.

 

Her own hair, which had been almost to her waist by the time Maureva was born, was now cropped short. The riot of unruly midnight strands couldn’t _quite_ decide whether to be curly or wavy, and with the gusts of frosty air coming off the mountains, it was getting in her eyes constantly. She herself was also in modified Crow armor, and before leaving Starkhaven, she’d reluctantly set aside her father’s staff for the halberd she had used for so long when she was hiding that she was a mage in Kirkwall. She had changed out Valor’s kaddis for a southern Fereldan pattern, just in case someone at the Conclave remembered or recognized the one she used on him in Kirkwall.

 

They were on the outskirts of Haven, the sprawl of tents extending out from the walls surrounding the hamlet all the way to the tree line. Representatives from all over Thedas had swarmed to the sacred site, and it appeared they weren’t the only ‘outsiders’ interested in the goings-on. She tilted her head towards one little camp right on the edge of the trees. “It looks like the Dalish even sent someone.”

 

Olive-green eyes flicked over the campsite in question. “Interesting. They went to the trouble of getting all the right supplies to blend in, but the setup is still Dalish if you know what you’re looking at.”

 

“And _you_ thought all the time spent with Merrill between Kirkwall and Starkhaven was a waste.” He gave a non-committal grunt. Fenris still hadn’t quite warmed to the chirpy Dalish woman, but he’d grown considerably more friendly since she had been the one to deliver Maureva, and had kept Marian in one piece before, during, and after. The baby began to squirm, letting out the little half-jabbering noises that meant she was getting hungry. Valor whined and pawed at Fenris. He didn’t like ‘his’ human-puppy being unhappy.

 

Eying the sun that was rapidly setting over the mountain peaks, the choice of safe places to feed Maureva were slim pickings. _Going into Haven proper to a tavern for food would be too dangerous_. Marian chewed on her lower lip for a moment, then approached the little Dalish campsite. She called out a perky, “Hello there!”

 

A scout, by all appearances, popped her head out of the tent after a few moments of rustling, eyes narrowed. The deep caramel shade of her skin marked her as a northern Marcher Dalish. The hood she wore had odd flaps that covered most of her face, and Marian supposed, was an excellent camouflage for the _vallaslin_ she suspected would be there if she took it off. A few seconds of uncomfortable silence stretched as she eyed the pair and mabari, and then she drawled out, “Hello.”

 

“My baby is getting fussy, and we have little time to set up our campsite before the sun goes down. Would you mind if I fed her in your tent while my husband sets up our camp?” The word husband still sent a warm thrill through Marian. Even though the Revered Mother in Starkhaven had refused to sanction it, Sebastian had made it official under secular law. Quietly, of course. No point in having Varric and Zevran divert everyone looking for them to Rivain, Antiva, and all the out-of-the-way places in between if they were just going to announce that they were in Starkhaven like _that_.

 

The scout hesitated for a moment, a surprised glance flicking to the now visibly squirming child, then nodded.  She grumbled out, “Don’t touch anything.”

 

“Of course not. I appreciate the hospitality.” The elf again looked surprised at the genuine courtesy in her tone, but stepped out of the tent and held the flap open for Marian. Taking Maureva from Fenris, she whispered, “I’ll be as quick as I can. Hello, my little Lady-bird!”

 

Ducking in, she waited for the flap to fall into place before freeing Maureva from her wraps. Her little Hawke waved her freed arms around before letting out a truly impressive cry for one so small. Only she wasn’t so small anymore, and her great secret becoming more noticeable. Marian’s heart beat a little faster as she touched her daughter’s chin, where two thin silver threads marked her lightly bronzed skin before trailing down and branching across her delicate neck in perfect imitation of her father’s lyrium markings. Her little jumper hid the swirls that covered the rest of her body. Marian would bet every last royal she had that Danarius hadn’t bargained on _that_ , or he would have been using Fenris like a prized breeding mabari.

 

Marian pulled open her armor and set Maureva to her meal, draping the largest wrapping blanket over her protectively. Anxiety knotted her stomach. She was close to being weaned, but still being fed by Marian at least twice a day. Even so, bringing the baby had been a huge risk. Being the daughter of a mage, granddaughter of a mage, and niece to two mages meant most of the Chantry and Templars would want to take her away just on principle. The fact that she had gotten Fenris’s markings just made it more dangerous.

 

She couldn’t just stay away, though. She had to see what Anders and Vengeance had brought the world to, and not when Varric had been dragged here from Kirkwall and might need help sneaking out, but she couldn’t stand to let Maureva leave her sight yet.  

 

Absently, she ran a hand over the silky midnight ringlets that covered her precious daughter’s head, then rearranged her armor. Once the toddler was fully bundled back up against the cold, not without a few squawks of protest at losing her free movement, she stuck her head out of the tent to call to the Dalish woman, then just about threw herself back in.

 

 _Cullen_. The former Knight-Captain had been speaking to someone else, clearly concerned about the village of tents that had sprung up around Haven, and hadn’t noticed her. Where Cullen was, there were likely to be Templars roaming freely. Roaming freely in Haven, _instead_ of being confined to the Temple grounds as the information Zevran brought to them had lead them to believe. Without the odd effects of Kirkwall’s design to muddy their senses, Templars would sense her in a heartbeat if she went searching for Varric and used magic. Her heart sank, and she wanted to cry. There could be no daring escape attempt this time, not with her daughter at risk, too.

 

It was too late for them to leave that night, but they would have to first thing in the morning. If Cullen spotted her or Fenris, they’d be turned over to that Seeker before they could blink. Peering out again, she quickly tied Maureva to her chest the way Merrill had shown her, then straightened as she watched the ruff of fur and golden head of the former Kirkwall Templar disappear back towards Haven’s front gates. Valor was watching him, too, but was too well-trained to go bouncing up to him in greeting. _Thank the Maker._ Thanking the elf for the use of her tent again, she hurried over to the campsite Fenris had set up for them. “We need to leave in the morning. _Curly_ is here.”

 

Bless Varric’s use of nicknames, and bless him for not using Cullen’s in that blasted book if his. Fenris’s brows drew together, flicking to Maureva, then to Marian’s face. “First light.”

 

“Yes. We’ll figure out a way to help Varric escape, but we _can’t_ risk it now.”

 

"Well, there is one good thing from this, at least."

 

"What's that?" Marian looked up from the campfire she was lighting with only a little magic for once.

 

"There won't be _any_ explosions when we leave this time."

  



	12. When It's Still Not Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write an occurrence of your character completely losing it. 
> 
> Even being Hero of Ferelden doesn't free Gwyneth Surana from some of the Chantry's demands.

Alistair didn't know what to expect when the maidservant came running to him in a panic.

"Your Majesty! Come quickly, it's Lady Gwyneth!" Her cap was askew, cheeks flushed from her mad dash through the halls of the palace in Denerim. Viola was normally as cool and calm as Gwyn herself, so for her to be worked into such a tizzy as to run to find him, or forget to curtsy, it had to be important.

Elissa had Maric in her arms, one of the nannies was helping her with Bryce, three year old Moira was tugging on her skirts shrieking for her attention, and a pinched look of distress strained her face. Both babies were screaming with hunger and even with help, she was having trouble keeping up with three children and her duties as Queen.

He was torn between helping his wife, and his beloved. When Moira had been born, he had promised Elissa and his tiny daughter that he would be a better father than his own had been to Cailan and himself. Now, that promise had him running his hands through his strawberry-blonde hair, feeling like the boy who had followed a slip of an elven mage through the Blight because there was too much to take in, in too little time, and he couldn't bloody  _think_  and decide which direction to go in so he just followed. So he was turning towards Elissa, then the door, then back to Elissa, before nearly falling over Moira, who had given up haranguing her mother to chase her mabari puppy, a gift from her nameday the previous month. A riot of copper curls, skirts, and barking grey pup dashed out the door, a clang, faint crash, and surprised guard's shout marking her progress down the nursery wing's hall.

Taking charge amidst the chaos, Viola swooped over to Elissa and took Maric, using a soothing tone, "Here, Your Majesty, let me take him. You lie down and we'll get one of the wet nurses to look after the babes."

Elissa sagged into her chair with relief, and pointed at the door. "Go check on Gwyn. And make sure that Moira hasn't escaped the nursery again."

Finding Moira was easy. His adored little harridan had been easily distracted by Solona Amell. She had the little girl balanced on one hip, puppy tucked against her chest on the other side, and the promise of a story to focus Moira's attention on a large bookshelf. Looking over Moira's head, she nodded since she couldn't curtsy and mouthed, "Hurry."

Oh, Maker's bloody… It must be  _BAD_.

Grand Cleric Elemena was outside Gwyn's suite, snapping at the guards to let her back in. When she spotted Alistair, she strode up and jabbed a finger into his chest. She looked angry enough to chew through leather as she hissed, "Your Majesty, I expect to know the father's name and have your promise that the child will be given to the Chantry at birth by sundown, is that  _clear_?"

Alistair's face grew hot, he grabbed Elemena's hand and shoved it away. "You may expect it,  _Grand Cleric_ , but you will not get it. Teyrna Gwyneth saved this kingdom and the whole of this Maker-forsaken  _world_  from the Blight in a bloody  _year_. I granted her freedom from the Chantry's restrictions on mages in thanks, and she has done nothing but use the freedom granted to her in the _service_ of this kingdom. She deserves her privacy and a small spot of happiness. If you want to force her to do anything, you'll have to get an edict from the  _Divine_  herself to do it, and an army."

Elemena's mouth pinched tight, and she spat, "Her few good deeds do not cover the  _sin_  of what she is,  _Your Majesty_. And this is not over."

He watched the Grand Cleric stalk away, then nodded to the guards as they let him into Gwyn's suite. He almost missed her, sitting in her overstuffed chair in front of the fire. "Gwyn?"

"What more do I have to do?" She turned Stormheart colored eyes to him as he knelt in front of her.

"What do you mean?"

"We save the kingdom from the Blight in under a year. I stop Kinloch Hold from being _Annulled_. I _reverse_ a possession, something that, as far as we know has _never_ been done before. I find the bloody  _fucking_  Ashes of Andraste and cure Arl Eamon. I kill a high dragon, save Amaranthine _and_ fucking Vigil's Keep. I work tirelessly helping you and Elissa run Ferelden, and _it's still not enough_." Her shoulders started to shake and her voice pitched higher and higher, until she was screaming at the last. The glass she had been holding in her hand shattered in the fireplace, shards glittering as they landed in ash and ember.

"Gwyn!"

"Leliana isn't in Val Royeaux with the Divine! She's in fucking  _Kirkwall_  because of course someone would put a fucking Circle in a city designed for a  _blood magic ritual_ , like  _that's_  a good idea, and be absolutely  _bloody fucking shocked_  when it goes to  _shit_!" She bent forward, her loose hair sliding in a blood red waterfall as she started gasping in panic. Alistair cupped her delicate face in his hands, speechless.

She flung his hands away and stood up. He sat down, hard, and Gwyn stepped over him, pacing in front of the fireplace. "What more do I have to do for this bloody world? What if the Divine isn't willing to side with me over the Grand Cleric without Leliana there, Alistair?"

"I will protect you and our baby, Gwyn. I promise you that. The Chantry is already on shaky ground in Ferelden for supporting the Occupation, and both the Grand Cleric and the Divine know it. They can't risk antagonizing us over our greatest hero."

"They can if they get the Bannorn on their side. Greatest hero or not, I'm still a mage, and worse, an  _elf_." She spat out the last word, sarcasm dripping. Alistair's jaw clenched. It was true. If she had been a human mage, he might have been able to use the aftermath of the Blight as leverage to make her queen. He cared for Elissa, and he loved Moira, Maric, and Bryce, but… he loved Gwyn, too.

"Maker knows there are _already_ members of the Bannorn who are ready to get me out of the picture if it would get them Gwaren or Amaranthine. Now that it's known publicly that there will be an heir to both the teyrnir and arling that's  _elf-blooded_  they'll do what they can to tear me down from the pedestal they shoved me onto to try and get them for themselves. Who knows what the baying pack of ungrateful mongrels would do if they knew you were the father."

She stopped with a small gasp. What little color remained in her face drained away and she bent forward, trembling hands going to the tiny bump that Fereldan fashions did absolutely nothing to hide.

Alistair scrambled to his feet, pulling Gwyn back against his chest and lifting her weight easily, a few steps back and he was in the chair with her on his lap. He arranged her with head tucked against his neck, and placed his hands on hers. "What is it? Do you need me to send for Solona?"

"No. It's…" Her voice was a hushed whisper now, "I felt the baby move. I felt it  _move_."

Alistair felt helpless when she started to weep, silent sobs shaking her while he held her in his arms. What good was a kingdom if he couldn't guarantee their safety?


	13. Champion and Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Write an occurrence of your character completely losing it. 
> 
> When Vivienne decides to take Marian Hawke to task for the events in Kirkwall, things don't quite go according to plan.
> 
> (I may not be the biggest fan of Vivienne.)

Varric had the book slammed open almost as soon as he noticed that Madame de Fer spotted Hawke. The erstwhile Champion of Kirkwall had been spending most of her time at Skyhold in the Herald's Rest with the Chargers and Iron Bull, taking comfort in the familiarity of the surrounding and company, even if it was considerably cleaner than the Hanged Man. However, Fen'lath had asked for her input on some situation or another, so she was in the hall.

* * *

 

Vivienne had been spoiling for something to bring attention back to her since her dressing-down from the Inquisitor. Despite her influence causing a surge in popularity for Antivan goods and the like, since the incident, the Iron Lady herself had been almost patently  _ignored_  by Fen'lath. She was spending more and more time with Marian Hawke and Lady Enchanter Amell, and Vivienne's own influence was waning considerably, despite the Inquisitor following through with her recommendation to make that wretched magister Tranquil. Now, the apostate responsible for allowing the abomination who caused this whole mess to run free, and indirectly snatched the glory of being First Enchanter from her was in her sights, and she was ready to make her move in the Game.

She had sat in her little alcove above the hall with no visitors of note for  _far_  too long. The rebel mages certainly wanted nothing to do with her, and even those who had been loyalists in the beginning were starting to fall under Fiona's sway. Vivienne was certain the kettle was getting close to the boiling point and abominations were inevitable. She would give the Champion the dressing-down she richly deserved, and those present in the hall who held the Circles close to their hearts for protecting mages would surely come to her side.

* * *

 

The siege at Adamant had been difficult on all of them, and Marian felt the exhaustion dragging on her, making her nauseated even as she simply sat next to Cullen and listened to him outlining the steps he'd taken to come off of lyrium after leaving Kirkwall. Carver was on the smallest amounts he could manage, but he would need to come off it eventually himself. She wanted to make sure that between Merrill's skills with herbs, potions, and poultices, as well as her own healing skills, he was as comfortable as possible and it was a smooth transition.

"It's a sad day when the last scion of so noble a family as the Strouds, and a man who was every inch an example of what a Chevalier should aspire to be, is considered more expendable than  _you_ , 'Champion of Kirkwall'."

Marian blinked up at the other mage, shocked to silence.

"So you have nothing to say for yourself? Exactly what I would expect from the woman who allowed that abomination Anders to run roughshod over Kirkwall for so long, only ridding the world of him when his body count included a Grand Cleric."

Rage roared up to replace the shock, and Marian stood abruptly, shooting the bench back and nearly throwing Cullen off of it. Red tinged her sight and blood roared in her ears as she snarled, "What did you say? I offered to stay, as did Jean Marc. The Inquisitor made her choice."

The hall silenced, watching the Champion and the Iron Lady square off. Satisfaction sparked in Vivienne's eyes, and she purred, "Really, such a temper, my dear. How a half-trained apostate like you managed to avoid becoming a blood-magic-using  _abomination_  I'll never know. At least Anders had Circle training, though he chose to ignore it. Grand Cleric Elthina should never have let you remain outside the Circle un-Harrowed once you were known to be a mage, and Anders executed on sight. Poor lady, it was her greatest mistake."

"How dare you? I protected Kirkwall from the results of Elthina's dithering over Meredith Stannard for _years_." Marian was so angry she could barely form coherent words. "Meredith would have made me Tranquil within days, if not hours, of clapping me in the Gallows, and  _you know it_. Anders kept Darktown from breaking out in a plague right up until the end, when Vengeance took over. The Templars in Kirkwall were corrupt, and forced the hands of too many who were  _legitimately_  afraid for their lives and their hope of freedom from the brand."

Cullen made as if to say something, only to be interrupted by Vivienne. "Kirkwall and the Gallows may have been in a bad way, but nothing excuses the behavior of any of the mages there. When the next Divine is elected, and I am working diligently towards this, my hope is that the Circles are reinstated with proper oversight. Hopefully they will prevent you from foisting any more mistakes on this world, either in terms of abominations, or, Maker forbid, by  _reproducing_. It's plain to see letting mage children be raised outside the Circle's purview is catastrophic."

Marian's shoulders stiffened, and the roaring in her ears became deafening. If the Circles ever came back… Maker, if they found out about Maureva, they'd take her away. If she were to show signs of being a mage as she got older, she'd be made Tranquil just on principle because of the markings. Trying not to let her anxiety over her daughter show, she breathed out, "I worked hard to protect everyone, you have  _no idea_  what Kirkwall does to people. I killed my fair share of the blood mages, you know."

Vivienne gave her an icy smile, "All your 'hard work' didn't save your mother, did it?"

With a scream, Marian vaulted the table and threw a punch that caught the other mage square across the jaw. She reeled back, a shocked hand flying to the side of her face and she screeched, "Commander, stop her! She's become an abomination!"

Cullen reached for her, shouting something Marian couldn't understand over the sickly whispers of demons recognizing a chance at freedom from the Fade. Vivienne had apparently forgotten that she had been able to get by in Kirkwall for years because she knew how to fight without magic. Her sleeve tore off in Cullen's grip as she lunged forward.

Vivienne's eyes widened when she realized that Cullen wasn't going to just Smite first and ask questions later. Reeling from her misstep, she needed to get out of reach of the other woman. Magic she was plenty confident of defending herself from and had been expecting, even hoping to force Marian over the edge and prove that apostates couldn't be trusted. Going up physically against a woman who had learned how to scrap like a farmhand and wield a halberd for a staff to hide that she was a mage would not end well for her. As undignified as it was, Vivienne turned and ran. Marian was hot on her heels, and Vivienne nearly took out Solas as she raced through the rotunda. She fled up the stairs and slammed the door to her balcony, icing it over and reinforcing it with a barrier.

Marian's luck with stairs struck, exacerbated by the exhaustion, and her boot slipped off the lip of a stair tread, sending her crashing forward. This time there was no lovestruck elf to catch her, and her forehead bounced of the lip of another, sending a shower of stars through her vision before the world went dark.

 

* * *

 

Cullen found her there on the stairs and his stomach churned when he rolled her over and saw the deep gash across her forehead. Solas gently elbowed him aside to set to work healing her, muttering that it was not safe to move Marian until he was sure doing so wouldn't cause more damage. After a few moments, he nodded at Cullen, lips pressed together unhappily. They shared a glare at the ice-rimed door, which muffled Vivienne's flustered screaming about abominations and apostate troublemakers. The Inquisitor would deal with her in time; they needed to focus on Marian.

 

* * *

 

 

Marian blinked, taking in the sleeping elf in the chair pulled up next to her bed. A sob caught in her throat because it wasn't Fenris. He was back in Starkhaven with Maureva. Her head ached, and she wanted to vomit from the aftereffects of the pure rage that had been coursing through her. She hadn't lost her temper like that in years. Suddenly, it was overwhelming and she stumbled past Solas as he woke, blinking owlishly at her as she barely made it to the water closet.

A hand limned with frost rested gently on the back of her neck as she gasped against another bout of nausea. "It will pass, don't fight it."

"I'm leaving as soon as I can. Vivienne isn't the only one who thinks Kirkwall is my fault." Her eyes watered and she rested her newly-healed forehead against her knees as she sank down to the floor. Her voice cracked as she whispered out, " _It includes me_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I posted this on Reddit, another user commented that Cullen can't Smite anyone anymore, since he's not on lyrium.
> 
> I've checked all the dialogue I could, and I've found no indication that Vivienne knows he's not taking lyrium anymore, thus the phrasing used here. It's probably not something Cullen would discuss with all and sundry.


	14. Memories Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A conversation in bed with your LI.
> 
> Alistair shares a special memory from the Fifth Blight with Gwyneth Surana.

Gwyneth smiled to herself when she felt the rush of cold air from Alistair pulling back the covers to join her in her bed. She rolled over and buried her nose in his neck, his body heat chasing the chill of the Wintersmarch night away quickly. "Maker's breath, woman. How can you be so  _cold_?"

 

"I've been in Gwaren and Amaranthine, Alistair. I only have Hero to keep my feet warm when I'm not here." The elderly mabari let out a whuffle of noise from the foot of her bed before jumping off and settling in front of the fireplace. The last dying embers allowed her to see the adoring look on Alistair's face when she drew back. "The Bannorn didn't object too much to both Elissa and I retiring from the First Day celebrations, did they?"

 

"Only Bann Ceorlic, and I think that's only because he's  _still_  sore about me winning the duel against Loghain and taking the throne. Who holds a grudge like that for over  _five_  years?" Alistair turned to Gwyn, propping himself up on an arm. "I pointed out that you've been traveling for the past month, in the dead of winter no less, to get back to Denerim in time for First Day. As for Elissa, Bann Alfstanna looked ready to use a serving tray to slap him upside the head for suggesting a woman with six month old twins should be forced to stay when she was obviously tired. She didn't use a tray, but the tongue lashing she gave him was rightly epic. You both had my permission, so he can suck a lemon."

 

She nodded and tucked her head up under his chin. Thank the Maker Elissa had always turned a blind eye to her and Alistair, since she was a practical sort. Of course, the fact that Gwyn had brought Nathaniel Howe into the Wardens, and often brought him to Denerim with her probably had something to do with it. In all likelihood, Nathaniel had been waiting up for Elissa like she had waited up for Alistair. Of course, Elissa had a better excuse for retiring early, and no one expected a Howe to be welcome at a banquet with the Cousland queen.

 

Gwyn let out a tired sigh. If only the Bannorn would have allowed for her to be Queen. Elissa and Nathaniel could have soothed the hurt that still marred any mention of the surviving Howes by marrying Nathaniel like she'd wanted to. And cows might fly over Minrathous. As she got lost in her thoughts, Alistair ruffled his nose in her hair and sighed out, "You always smell so good."

 

"Even during the Blight?" she poked him in the chest.

 

He laughed, "I choose to believe so. Couldn't smell anything over the Darkspawn gore and impending doom, so you could have smelled like roses the whole time and I  _never_ would have known."

 

"Maker, remember that awful soap Isolde made us bathe with at Redcliffe? I think Sten was the only one of us who wasn't allergic in some way." Gwyn wrinkled her nose, remembering the heavily perfumed Orlesian soap that had left them with an itchy rash and made her sneeze repeatedly.

 

"Oh, I remember." She pulled out from under his chin, vaguely noticing that a few strands of her Bloodstone-red hair had caught in the little patch of hair he still insisted was going to sprout into a full, glorious beard someday. The look on his face was far away and wistful. She brushed at his cheek, "What are you remembering? I don't think it's the rash you're thinking of."

 

" _Maker_  no! It's… I'm going to preface this by saying I had quite a lot of ale to deal with the nobles after you and Elissa left, alright?" Gwyn nodded at him, and Alistair pulled her closer to his side. "Well, that week we spent in Redcliffe while you were sick and recovering is when I knew I was falling in love with you."

 

"Andraste save me, you realized that while I was  _rashy_  from stinky Orlesian soap, sneezing, and coughing up a storm?" She buried her head in his chest, muffling her voice, "Please, let the earth open and swallow me up now."

 

"Oh, it was the day after the rash and cough cleared up thanks to Wynne, don't worry Gwyn. Remember when you sneezed and Teagan blessed you?"

 

"Vaguely?" She was still muffled by her attempt to sink into his torso in embarrassment.

 

"You thanked him immediately after the sneeze, instead of waiting like you normally do. Your voice was all squeaky. It was what I expected Schmooples to sound like, after we met Schmooples." He smiled into her hair when he heard the despairing noise she made. "Yes, the squeaky-nug voice did it for me. I wondered how the woman I had seen blasting Darkspawn and taking out abominations like she'd never done otherwise could be so…  _cute_."

 

"This is why I never talk right away if I sneeze in front of the Bannorn. If they thought I was _cute_ on top of being an elf, they'd try to walk all over me and I'd never be able to get anything done. Especially with a grudge-holding prat like Ceorlic." Gwyn pulled her face out of Alistair's chest.

 

"Oh, I know you'd set them back to the proper way of thinking in minutes, Gwyn. All while smelling of rose, orange, and vanilla." He kissed her gently on the lips between each scent. She had already been flushed with embarrassment, now it deepened at the teasing tone. "I  _missed_  you while you were gone, Gwyn."

 

"I _missed_ you, too. If that storm hadn't forced me to go overland instead of taking a ship from Gwaren, I would have been here weeks ago. Three months is too long without you." Gwyn shivered as his gaze intensified and his pupils dilated.

 

"Are you too tired to make up for it?" He pulled at the base of her braid gently, forcing her head to tilt back.

 

She smiled, "Never."


	15. Wycome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A battle of wills, a reunion, hope, sadness and regret
> 
> Fen'lath Lavellan is determined to protect the elves of Wycome after the deposition of Duke Antoine of Wycome.

“No.”

 

Fen’lath paused, then looked from the map to Leliana and Josephine. She took a deep breath, and asked as calmly as she could, “What do you mean, no?”

 

“We should let Lady Guinevere reason with the other nobles of the Free Marches. To send our own troops risks too much. My people are not enough, and we must be circumspect.” Josephine nodded enthusiastically as Leliana spoke, then added, “Please, Inquisitor, we _cannot_ have an incident, not when my diplomats may still be able to convince the remaining Marchers to listen to reason. It would be unseemly for us to be seen to be siding with...”

 

As Josephine trailed off, Fen felt a pit form in her stomach. Her tone was frosty as she bit out, “Siding with _whom_ , Josephine? The merchants who remained in Wycome and are dealing with both the city elves and the Dalish fairly? Do you fear offending the nobles who so bravely abandoned the city to the Venatori who were poisoning the people? Or is the Inquisition still ashamed of acknowledging that their leader is a heathen _knife-ear_ who is concerned about the welfare of other knife-ears?”

 

Cullen looked away and cleared his throat as Josephine blushed and looked down. Fen felt the edge of the map start to curl under her fingers as her first magic, fire, sparked with her anger. “After Halamshiral and Red Crossing, I had hoped that the notion that the Inquisitor is just a silly, trained _rabbit_ dressing up and thinking it’s a people would have been dispelled. At the very least with _my own advisors_.”

 

Leliana’s mouth pinched at the mention of Red Crossing, the disagreement over the status of the mourning halla still fresh.  Their cartographers had only recently repaired tears in the map from when Fen’lath had lept onto the war table to try and strangle the Nightingale for suggesting the villagers be told the halla was a captured trophy. It still rankled; she had intended to ease relations between the Dalish and the village, not prop up smug nobles. Fen met Leliana's gaze without wavering, rage making the heat flowing from her fingers scorch hand prints into the table and ignite the map.

 

Finally Leliana looked away, but she snipped out, “We still should appeal to the Marchers--”

 

“ _FUCK_ the Marchers! They’ll bow and scrape to your _shemlen_ diplomats, say all the right things, and _still_ slaughter every elf in Wycome. Would you hem and haw this much if my ears were _rounded_ instead of pointed? Or if I were an Andrastian city elf?” Fen felt something in her throat pop as she shouted, and tears sprang into her eyes. She had never truly been made to feel like she was welcome in Lavellan, but they were her clan. Her people.

 

“Let me make _one thing_ clear to both of you. _I am not ashamed of being an elf_. _I will not apologize for being an elf_. And _I will not_ _submit_ to the Chantry’s dictates on what the proper place for an elf is. End of discussion, for good. If you want me to stay on as the Inquisitor, stop treating me like a ‘good little rabbit’, and save my people _my way_.”

 

“The Inquisitor is right. If we negotiate, the Marchers will kill the elves, then send apologies. We must fortify the city.” Cullen placed and hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Voice husky and painful, Fen looked up at him and croaked, “Thank you, Cullen.”

 

He had also sent troops to protect the halla when it was gifted to Red Crossing, she thought as Cullen carefully moved her hands one by one to pat out the flames crisping the parchment. How he could look past her being an elf when Leliana couldn’t, even though she had actually traveled with Gwyneth Surana-- another elven mage!-- to stop the Blight, was truly mind-blowing. Fen straightened and strained out, “I’m going to see Solas about my throat. Meanwhile, I expect the two of you to help the Commander arrange for troops to be moved to Wycome from our posts in the Marches immediately. I will be joining them, along with Solas, Dorian, and Bull. Keeper mentioned there were rifts in the outlying forests, so I already have my cover. Discuss.”

 

She flipped a hand at the two stunned women, and marched out of the room, head high as she passed a non-plussed Cassandra, several distinctly uncomfortable looking guards and an elven maid that appeared to be on the verge of fainting from shock. The trip through the main hall as quicker than normal, the stormy expression on her face keeping most of the sycophants from approaching her this time. Fen paused in doorway of the rotunda, running a finger over one cheekbone, feeling the texture change of her vallaslin, and whispered to herself, "Never again shall we submit."

 

Solas smiled when he spotted her and set down the pigments he had been fiddling with. The fresco he had done after leaving the Winter palace was finished, Orlesian blue a striking contrast to the reds, browns, and dingy greens of the other frescoes. His smile turned down when he noted the fury still on her face. “ _Vhenan_?”

 

“My throat.” Fen waved her hands, it was too painful to say more. His eyes narrowed, and he placed gentle hands against her neck. Cool, soothing magic flowed in, finding and repairing the damage that had been done. “Thank you, _vhenan_. I had a… _disagreement_ with Leliana and Josephine.”

 

“Did you succeed at strangling the Nightingale this time?” Solas was only half-joking. His Dalish wolf was quite magnificent in her fury. Color rode high on her cheeks under the vallaslin, and her Fade-colored eyes sparked. He enfolded her in an embrace, pulling her head under his chin to soothe her. She sighed out, “No, but I think the war table will have hand prints scorched into it eternally. I may have also burnt the Korcari Wilds off the map.”

 

“I doubt there was much left of them after the Fifth Blight that needed to be on the map anyway, _vhenan_.” Fen snorted out a little laugh.

 

“What was the disagreement?” She tensed in his arms, then pulled back. “You’re going to need to grab your pack. We’re headed for Wycome.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

Standing up in the stirrups, Fen peered at the walls of Wycome through Stormhart’s antlers. The Inquisition’s banners flew from the walls, easing the knot of tension between her shoulderblades. The Inquisition fleet had landed at the mouth of the Minanter late the night before, too late to actually make their way to the city. Some of the tension melted away at the reassurance that the city and the elves within were guarded by friendly forces. 

 

“Commander, signal our arrival to the gates.” Stormhart let out a great trumpeting cry as Fen gave him his head. She heard the thunder of hooves behind her, Solas was just a few paces back on his Tirashan Swiftwind, Elgar’assan. They pounded through the gates, and Solas swung off his hart, then reached up to lift Fen down with a small smile. 

 

“ _Ma serannas, vhenan_.” She paused, hesitant. “My clan… will be like I was at first. Keeper will not see the value of your knowledge and wisdom because you do not have the _vallaslin_. Pay no mind to it.” 

 

Solas’s lips pressed together, but he nodded. “I will be mindful of what I say, _vhenan_. From what you have told me, your Keeper and the Dalish are not ready to hear what there is to be said.”

 

Several people, elves and humans, were lined up to greet them. Hope swelled in Fen’s chest when she saw that the Keeper and what was likely the _hahren_ of the Wycome alienage were in the company. They were being given precedence equal that of the shemlen representatives. Fen moved past the dismayed looking humans to the older elven woman with the full knots of Sylaise’s _vallaslin_ on her face. “Keeper!”

 

“ _Da’len_! Let’s have a look at you!” Keeper Deshanna wrapped her arms around Fen, then pulled back to cast her gaze over her former First. The corners of her mouth turned down in disapproving frown, taking in the scars that cut through her full lips and across her nose and neck. “What happened to you, _da’len_? The _shems_ had assured us that you were unharmed.”

 

“Corypheus’s attack at Haven, Keeper. I _may_ have gone face-first through a wooden grate. They are not as bad as they were.” Deshanna sighed, and Fen rushed out, “But you are safe with the Inquisition here to fortify the city. We will be staying until we are assured that the rest of the Marchers will leave Wycome and the clan be.” 

 

“Yes, about that.” A thick, distinctly annoyed Orlesian accent rose behind them. Fen recognized Lady Guinevere Volant from her portrait. The mousy brunette was visibly furious that the human representatives were being ignored for the elven Keeper. She inhaled for a tirade, and the armored woman next to her stepped forward with a salute, Antivan accent thick in her greeting, “Lieutenant Rozellene Chambreterre, Inquisitor. I have been overseeing the fortification of the city, and the disposal of what red lyrium was left in the water supply. Arcanist Dagna’s information has been of incredible help in ensuring the safety of the people of the city while the cleanup efforts are in effect.”

 

Lieutenant Chambreterre chattered on, obviously keeping Lady Guinevere from doing or saying anything stupid, and managed to keep going until Cullen, Josephine, and the main Inquisition forces arrived. The Ambassadors, Commander and Lieutenant grouped up to strategize, leaving Fen with Solas, Dorian, Bull, and the Keeper. Dorian strode up and dropped into an elegant bow to Keeper Deshanna, taking her hand and kissing it. “You must be the lovely Keeper our dearest Fen’lath has told us so much about.”

 

“Keeper, this is Dorian Pavus, from House Pavus of Minrathous, that’s The Iron Bull, Captain of the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company, and Solas, my arcane advisor.” 

 

“Hmm.” Keeper Deshanna looked from Dorian to Bull to Solas, unimpressed. Fen suddenly felt eight again, with the feeling that she had done something wrong. The Keeper looped her arm through Fen’s, and said in a tone that brooked no argument, “Walk with me, _da’len_.”

 

She turned and started walking, fairly dragging Fen along with her. Dorian stepped forward with an angry expression, stopping when Solas set a hand on his arm. “No, let her handle this.”

 

Fen’lath stumbled over the cobbles, leather footwraps and slick stone did not mix well. Turning a corner, Deshanna released her iron grip on Fen’s elbow and rounded on her, “Is the Tevinter the lover I’ve heard rumors of, _da’len_? How could you?! Don’t you know what his countrymen do to the People in his homeland?”

 

Busting up laughing, Fen managed to choke out, “Dorian is charming, Keeper, but I am not to his taste. Women don’t have the parts he likes.”

 

Deshanna’s mouth dropped open, then squeaked, “It isn’t the Qunari, is it? Please, _da’len_ …”

 

“No, Keeper, Bull has the parts Dorian likes. A lot.” Fen was laughing so hard at the absolutely nonplussed look on the older elf’s face that she had to bend over and put her hands on her knees. Tears were streaming down her face and she thought she might pass out. “Then, the bald one… the flat--” 

 

“Don’t.  Don’t call him that.” Laughter stopped, Fen snapped upright and wobbled for a second. _Bloody blasted blighter, I might pass out from standing upright too quickly_. “He’s a Dreamer, Keeper. The People haven’t had one in over two hundred years and he is one of the wisest people I have ever met, don’t you _dare_ slander him.”

 

An avaricious gleam shone in Deshanna’s eye. Suddenly Fen wanted to weep as she saw the woman who had acted as her parent since her mother and then her father had gone to Falon’Din go from loving concern to mentally calculating the bargains she could strike with other clans in trade for Dreamer children. “Are you bonding with him, _da’len_?”

 

“Maybe. Maybe not. We have not decided. There are more _pressing_ concerns at the moment, Keeper.” Sadness overwhelmed Fen when the Keeper frowned at her. There was the the frustrated pinch of the mouth that she knew so well, the disappointment that had preceded every lecture about her _duty_ as a mage of the People, as a First. “Your _first_ duty, always, should be to producing more children for the clan, _da’len_. Not only because of your talents, but because you have found a man with a skill the People have not had in their blood for so long.” 

 

“Is _this_ why you wanted me as your First, Keeper? To _use_ me like a breeding halla? Will you try to tempt Solas with a stud fee next?” She started shaking. “I should have just let Commander Cullen send to Lieutenant Chambreterre to protect you. Coming back was a mistake.”

 

“ _Da’len_ \--”

 

“I am _not_ a child anymore, Keeper! And I am not going to keep looking the other way while you brush aside new knowledge of our past because it doesn’t fit tradition! I will send letters with whatever I find with Solas, it is up to you whether you act on it and tell the clan. However, if I am asked by any other Keepers or any others of the People, I will not keep it to myself just because it makes you uncomfortable.” A potsherd came to mind. One a tiny, five year old Fen had given to a much younger Keeper Deshanna, proud of her find. 

 

The shard of pottery had a blurred but still recognizable figure of Mythal, resting her hand on the head of a wolf. The next time she’d seen it, the shard had been scratched and buffed, the wolf gone and only the figure of Mythal remained. “I will remain in Wycome long enough to ensure that the other Marcher _shems_ treat the city elves and the clan properly, then I am going back to _Tarasyl'an Te'las_. I will write to let you know what Solas and I decide to do. Whatever we decide, I _highly_ doubt it will include bringing any children I might have here to you.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

Solas watched Fen’lath stride back from wherever the Keeper had taken her off to. Her steps were quick and clipped, but she stopped to speak to some city elves and a few of the Lavellan hunters who approached her warily, the three who had accompanied her to Haven if his memory of her descriptions of them matched. The contrast between Fen and her clanmates, and the Dalish and city elves was disconcerting. 

 

The city elves were sickly-toned under the skin made dusky by the Marcher climate, and stick-thin. In his Fade-sight, they were wispy, with scarcely more presence than Tranquil or other non-magical folk. The Dalish were robust compared, with the flush of health in their cheeks and the thickness of well-earned and well-fed muscle on their bodies. Even compared to other Dalish he had encountered, they were more solidly built thanks to their trade with the humans of Wycome rounding out their diet. In Fade-sight, they were as weak spirits, lacking form but still present. 

 

And then there was Fen, his vhenan. Though she was not as full as a woman of the elvhen would be, she was obviously the best fed, best-rested, and best cared for of the elves. She was visibly muscular, but also soft, with gentle curves of hip and thigh. Fen bent to speak to one of the children hiding behind the skirts of the city elves, presenting him with a pleasant view of her backside, his favorite of her curves, then she straightened to speak to one of the Dalish hunters, putting her face in profile. Her time in the south of Thedas had lightened her skin compared to her clanmates, and the charming spray of freckles across her cheeks was more visible in contrast. 

 

In Fade-sight… she was solid. She was real. And if she was real… they all had the potential to be real. 

 

As Master Tethras was fond of saying, _well, shit_. 


	16. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: Your character is writing a letter to their LI- It's about anything, a confession, a breakup, or a just a simple status update or nothing in particular.
> 
> After defeating Corypheus and Solas disappears, Fen'lath Lavellan attempts to contact him with news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just fair warning. I was told that it's pretty much a given I can't have children of my own the week I finished Inquisition and Trespasser the first time.
> 
> If I do conceive, it's something stupid like a 75%+ risk of miscarriage.
> 
> I may have taken my anger and other related feels about it out on Fen's canon.

Solas,

 

 _Ma’vhenan_ , I don’t know where to send this letter. Honestly, I don’t even know if that is your real name. Leliana’s people say the village you gave as your home was a ruin when they found it. An _ancient_ ruin. I began to suspect after Halamshiral, but it did not matter to me that you are one of the true _Elvhen_ , an ancient woken by the chaos. I suspect it was Kirkwall that woke you, for you to have had the time to adapt, wander, and Dream as you did. For you to feel as disconnected from the People as you do. I knew for sure after the _vir’abelasan_ that you are one. I tried to reach out, hoping that though I am a _shemlen_ compared, it would not matter if I said I knew the truth and yet still you delayed and put me off, you said ‘after Corypheus.’ Then the orb broke, and you were gone.

 

You do not know the consequences of that trip to Crestwood, _vhenan_. More than losing you as my other half, what felt like the loss of my closest friend and confidante, the loss of my _vallaslin_ and the feeling that the Dalish had at least _some_ knowledge that had been preserved intact. I do not know how to put the words to parchment. They should be said in person, although at this point, it would hardly be a surprise, slim as I am. Cole tells me the child is a boy, and that the Anchor hurts him.

 

It’s why I need you, _more_ than for myself. Our son needs you. Dorian, Fiona, even Vivienne, and every mage in the College of Enchanters are desperately researching and doing everything they can to save him. The midwives and healers say if I can carry him just a few months longer, there are herbs they can give me and he’ll be born early, but he'll be safe and alive. The words that always hang in the air unspoken are that they don’t think he’ll last that long. The voices from the Well all whisper ‘ _abelas_ ’ and ‘ _din’an_ ’. I am so very afraid, Solas.

 

Copies of this will be placed in every ruin we visited in the hopes of one finding you. I see you in my dreams sometimes, and when I call to you, hoping it is you visiting me as you did before, the howling winds like those after Haven tear the words away. Please come back. Save us.

 

 _Mala vhenan bellanaris_ ,

 

Fen’lath


	17. Diamondback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 2: While Hawke, the Inquisitor, or the Warden are on a mission with some of their party members, what are the other companions doing at that time? Write a piece depicting something that the left behind companions are doing.
> 
> Blackwall teaches Solas how to play Diamondback while the Inquisitor is away from Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had it bookmarked, but I now cannot find the DA Reddit thread where others were musing that we rarely see Solas written outside of the context of his romance, or with the other companions and *not* talking about his relationship to the Inquisitor. So, here you go. Dread Wolf playing Diamondback with Blackwall.
> 
> Also, after writing the previous prompt, I needed to write something that wasn't so heavily laden with personal feels.

“Nice painting.”

 

“It is not a _painting_ , but a fresco, pure pigment on plaster.” Solas knew it was petty, but with Fen’lath gone from Skyhold with Dorian on a personal matter, he had little patience for his contemplations and studies being disturbed. However, Warden Blackwall was not normally the sort to come up into the keep proper, and the surprised look on his face made Solas check himself. “Forgive me, Blackwall, my shortness was unwarranted. Is there something I can help with? You rarely come up to the keep.”

 

“Er--right. Well, it’s quieter in the stables with the horses and whatnot gone with Lady Fen’lath and Dorian, Bull and his lot are too loud for my taste and that one-eyed hulk always looks at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Sera’s chasing one of the laundry girls, I don’t feel comfortable socializing with most of the rest, ‘specially the poncy clingers in the Great Hall, so… I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind playing a few hands of cards to pass the evening?” The Grey Warden crossed his arms over his gambeson and tugged at one of the forks of his beard, looking rather uncomfortable now that the offer had been laid out.

 

Solas blinked. “You want to play cards. With me.”

 

Blackwall shrugged. “Heard you tell Varric you don’t gamble much anymore. Don’t have to jaw my ear off like you would with him, and I prefer Diamondback to Wicked Grace. It’s more relaxed and better with only two people. More strategy.”

 

 _Oh, really?_ He stroked his chin in consideration. “I do not know the game, but if you would teach me, I would be willing to try.”

 

Blackwall’s beard split in a wide grin. “Of course! I’ll fetch a deck while you clear the table, and we’ll get started.”

 

* * *

 

Blackwall leaned back in his chair, relaxed in the warmth of the rotunda. A serving maid had brought them ale and a platter of tasty something-or-others while he was teaching Solas the rules, and he had just handily beaten the elf in their first real go at the game.

 

Coiling the leather belt Solas had lost in his hand, he slapped it in the middle of the table. “Double or nothing, what do you say?”

 

Solas smiled, something sharper than Blackwall was used to cutting the edge of his grin. He made a ‘bring it’ gesture with his hand. “Agreed. Deal the cards.”

 

“So eager to lose again? You’re good, Solas, but even _you_ can’t master a card game like Diamondback that quickly.” The trash talk slid out with good humor, neither of them had been serious during the first match either.

 

“No, I can not. But as they say, practice makes familiar. Deal the cards, if you will.”

 

Blackwall chuckled, flicking the cards with a skill he thought left behind in his youth. Solas watched the waxed paperboard fly through the air, keen eyes taking in Maker-knew-what details, then carefully picked them up and arranged them in his hand just so. Taking up his own hand, he looked at his cards and kept his face carefully neutral. His hand wasn’t the best, but a bluff or two, or a good draw would do wonders for it.

 

“Well, Solas, what do you say? I’ll make it easy and let you draw first blood this time.”

* * *

 

What Blackwall didn’t know was that he had three tells. When a drawn card improved his hand, the right side of his mustache and beard would twitch, just once, as he settled the card into place. Someone whose life had not depended on things like catching the flicker of an eyelid from across a garden in Arlathan would have missed it in the bigger motion, but Solas did not. Likewise, the tense of his lips when the draw was bad. If he was going to bluff, his eyes would flick to the leftmost card, then center, then leftmost again as he named his bet.

 

The game itself was similar to one Solas had watched soldiers playing in the Fade, and with only one deck of cards in play, counting them was simple. He scanned the cards already in play, and Solas checked  his hand, then set down his cards, “Call.”

 

“Makers’s _swinging_ balls!” Blackwall slapped down his losing hand, and muttered as he wrestled out of his shirt. It joined his belt, gambeson, and boots in the ‘loot’ pile on Solas’s side of the table. The human man huffed out a frustrated breath, then gathered up the cards and began dealing again. “Lucky hand. I’ll get you this time.”

 

Solas raised his eyebrow just enough to taunt Blackwall, “I have had a lucky hand _five times_ in a row?”

 

“Exactly. Your luck’s just about to run out.” He took a deep quaff from his tankard, then thunked it down, leaving a rime of ale froth on his mustache. “Now, are you surrendering, or are you up for the challenge?”

 

Laughing, Solas felt one of the knots that had lived between his shoulders since the Conclave had exploded loosen. Fen’lath had rid him of a few, but this, the camaraderie between two men who were fighting in a war but taking respite where they could, was a different kind of relaxation. He lifted his chin and smirked. “Challenge accepted.”

 

The cards flew again and shushed across the wooden desk.

* * *

He was glad the Great Hall had cleared out before their game had finished. As it was, a few of the scullery maids had been giggling behind their hands as he made a mad dash for the stables in his armored smalls, the ones the Chevaliers called a ‘bucket for your bits’. Solas had at least been merciful enough to leave him those. _Maker’s balls_ , he’d just taught the man Diamondback, how in the world had he managed to clean him out in one night?

 

The elf was like a _statue_! Blackwall had watched, sweated, and mentally sworn as his face had remained placid and still through every bet, every draw, every discard, and every call. Still, it had been a good night, and when he hadn’t been cursing Solas’s blighted Diamondback face, the stories and other conversation had been good. As he pulled another shirt over his head and laced on a new pair of breeches, he chuckled over the dry delivery of his advice on fighting demons.

 

_"Do you have any advice for fighting demons, Solas?" He discarded a card and drew a new one. Aha, improvement!_

_"Survive the first thirty heartbeats, and you'll have already won." He held, waving off the chance to discard._

_Blackwall gave him a flat look over his hand. "So I should try not to die? Helpful."_

_"I mean that demons are rarely intelligent enough to change their tactics. If you focus on defending yourself, you will see the full range of their abilities within the first thirty heartbeats. By then, you should be able to find a weakness and exploit it." He spoke as he scanned over the cards laid out in the diamond, then laid down a card to fill in an empty spot and drew._

_"Ahh, that is helpful! I will try to remember that." He laid down two cards to fill in the last empty spots in the diamond, then gestured to call._

_Solas smirked as Blackwall swore at yet another loss, "Also, try not to die."_

* * *

Cleaning up and arranging his parchments and books back on his desk, Solas found himself frowning over Blackwall’s effects. They were in fair condition, but certainly not the condition they should be for a man representing an organisation such as the Grey Wardens, much less the Inquisition. The patching on his gambeson was middling, the work of one doing it from necessity, but not trained to it with skill. The shirt, breeches, even his socks and shoes showed signs of wear and patching that would not hold up under heavy use against Corypheus’s forces, nor keep him warm long-term in Skyhold.

 

Grabbing three scraps of parchment, he penned three quick notes. There was much Blackwall had given away with their talk over the cards, mostly that he was not drawing on the pay the Inquisition was giving to him for himself. It was going to wood to craft toys for the children of soldiers and the like. He remembered from his time leading the rebellions that it was the duty of the leaders to make sure their followers were properly outfitted, and seeing that Fen, through no fault of her own, was not aware of what that entailed, he would assist her in this case.

 

Gathering notes and equipment, Solas strode through the darkened halls of the keep. In the Undercroft, he left Blackwall’s boots and gambeson with the note for Master Harritt. Quickly across the hall and down into the scullery, he left the shirt, breeches, and socks with a note. Back into the Great Hall, and he moved silently into Lady Montilyet’s office. He was dismayed to see that she was still up and scribbling away behind the heavy oak desk, despite it being well past the midnight bells. She shrieked in surprise when he walked up to her desk and murmured “Lady Montilyet.”

 

“Solas! _Maker’s breath_ , but you should make some noise when you move!” Fluttering hands rested against the poufs of her blouse, then she swore in Antivan when she realized she had dripped ink from her quill onto the silk. “What can I help you with at this time of night?”

 

“I have a note for you regarding the pay the Inquisition has seen fit to give to me for my services. I need your assistance in the dispensation of some of the funds and proper acquisition of materials with it. Of course, that can wait until you have gotten some rest, Lady Montilyet.”

* * *

Two weeks after their card game, Blackwall climbed into the loft of the stables, grunting and stretching before pulling off his helmet and setting it on the armor rack Cullen had installed for him. Helping train the recruits felt good, it was… _familiar_ , but for a good cause this time, instead of how it was in his other life.

 

He turned to his chest to grab a set of clothes to take to the baths, and stopped. On the blanket-covered hay bales that served as his bed, there sat five new gambesons, a stack of brand new shirts, a stack of breeches, several pairs of snowy woolen socks, and lined along the side were pairs of boots. In a neat stack at the end, in better condition than they’d been in years, were the clothes he’d lost to Solas with a note in neat, spidery script.

 

_“The best we can do is ensure the world still stands when this fight ends._

 

_Remember, try not to die.”_

 


	18. It Brings People Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A companion's pov on meeting your OC for the first time.
> 
> Alistair meets the new Grey Warden recruit at Ostagar.

“You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together.”

 

Alistair had spotted the person waiting for him out of the corner of his eye, and hadn’t registered that she was, in fact, a girl. He did when he turned to face her, though. A short elven one. _Oh Maker, and she’s pretty too!_ Instantly, his mouth took over and ran away before his brain could engage. “It’s like a party; we could all stand in a circle and hold hands. That would give the darkspawn something to think about.”

 

She was giggling! Like… like a bell chiming, or something equally poetic and normally _so_ not him. And giggling was good, it meant he only had his foot in his mouth, and not his whole leg like he usually would. Alistair felt like his brain was going to explode. She had big eyes, like elves did, and such a wonderful shade of green. Like the raw Stormheart he remembered in the armory back in Redcliffe. And her hair! It was the same color of Bloodstone ore. Oh Maker, was he rambling to himself in his head? _Quick, think of something else to say! Wait, was that a staff in the sling on her back? Blast._ “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

 

“I am indeed a mage.” And back to the brain exploding. Soft voice with a hint of giggle making her a bit breathless, and she smiled at him. _Smiled_. At him.

 

“Really? You don’t look like a mage. Uh… that is… I mean… how interesting.”   _Smooth, Alistair. Real smooth._

 

Those doe eyes of hers were still giggling, even as she bit a very nice and soft looking lower lip to hold back another fit of laughter while he wrested control of his mouth away from whatever demon had taken it over. _Templar training._ He mentally puffed his chest with pride when he put together a coherent sentence. “Wait, I do know who you are. You’re Duncan’s new recruit from the Circle of Magi. I should have recognized you right away, I apologize.”

 

Wrong thing to say. _Maker._ The laughter was gone instantly, her jaw clenched, and she lifted her chin. It would have been intimidating if he didn’t have at least fifty pounds of muscle and a good foot of height on her. Oh, he felt like a right git. She sounded like she was going to cry, even as she bit out, “If you have a _problem_ with my magic, say so now.”

 

His voice, embarrassingly, pitched higher as he blurted, “No problem. It’s just my background makes mages nervous. And nervous mages make me nervous.” _Fuck_. “I don’t want to be a toad; I like the way I am.”

 

Alistair fully resigned himself to life with his entire leg shoved in his mouth, eventually dying of the fatal ‘foot-in-mouth’ disease when the angelic elf in front of him incinerated him for being a prat. She might as well know whose name to put on his burial urn, so he sighed and pushed on, “Allow me to introduce myself: I’m Alistair, the new Grey Warden, though I guess you knew that. As the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

 

And now he was suddenly aware that there was another definition of the word ‘joining’ that could be used in context with being around a lovely girl. _Maker’s BALLS, keep it together, Alistair! Just this once, for the love of the bloody Maker!_

 

Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice the mental meltdown taking place only a foot away from her. Her brows drew together, and there was a rather charming little wrinkle between them. “I can’t prepare on my own?”

 

“I know! I felt the same way when I did this. Unfortunately, they don’t give us much choice.” He gestured for her to walk with him. Out of habit drilled into him by the revered mother, Alistair absently held out his arm, and after a startled pause, she slid a slim-fingered hand into the crook of his elbow. “You know… it just occurred to me that there have never been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?”

 

The mage-- _Maker-dammit, remember to ask her name, you dolt!_ \--tilted her head at him in a way he was praying was flirtatious, eyelashes fluttering, “You want more women in the Grey Wardens, do you?”

 

“Would that be so terrible? Not that I’m some drooling lecher or anything.” She let out a snort and covered her mouth, the giggle back in her eyes as they darted up to his face. “Please stop looking at me like that.”

 

_ANYWAY, moving on!_

 

“So, I’m curious, have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?”

 

“Have you?” It was a scared little squeak. _Right, mage. From the Circle._ Of course she hadn’t.

 

The monsters of her world so far wore armor with the Templar heraldry stamped on it, or stalked her in her dreams, trying to find a way to the waking world. Alistair was tempted, just for a second, to play himself as brave and heroic in the face of the horde.

 

“When I fought my first one, I wasn’t prepared for how monstrous it was. I can’t say I’m looking forward to encountering another. Anyhow, when you’re ready, let’s head back to Duncan. I imagine he’s eager to get things started.”

 

She looked pale, well, paler than she had before--living in a tower for more than a decade if he guessed right would do that to anyone--so he gently rested his free hand over the hand she had in the crook of his arm. He hoped she found it reassuring.

 

“That argument I saw… what was it about?” Her eyes were darting about, trying to find something to help settle her, Alistair thought.

 

“With the other mage? The Circle is here at the King’s request, as you know, and the Chantry doesn’t like that one bit. They just _love_ letting mages know how unwelcome they are.” He didn’t even try to reign in the sarcasm. She let out another, louder snort. “Which puts me in a bit of an awkward position. I was once a Templar.”

 

Thank the Maker, she didn’t try to pull away or yank her hand back. There was just a slight stumble in her step, then it was like nothing had happened. “You were a mage-hunter?”

 

“Not that that’s all Templars do, you know as well as I do, but yes. The Chantry… raised… me until Duncan recruited me about six months ago.” He wasn’t going to mention Redcliffe unless it absolutely had to be said. If he had his way, he’d bring up Cailan and his father about six days after never. “I’m sure the revered mother meant it as an insult--sending me as her messenger--and the mage picked right up on that. I never would have agreed to deliver it, but Duncan says we’re all to cooperate and get along. Apparently they didn’t get the same speech.”

 

They had been crawling through the camp at a snail’s pace, but the walk and the air had given a nice flush to her cheeks, and she didn’t look nearly so scared as before. “You don’t have to accompany me,” she said it like she didn’t want to be a burden, “Do you?”

 

“Don’t worry; I’ll _try_ not to embarrass you.” She rolled her eyes with a smile that said ‘too late’.

 

“What about the other recruits?”

 

“Daveth and Ser Jory are here in the camp. Have you met them?”

 

“Yes, both of them.” Her tone was cool, and Alistair noticed the way her mouth had pinched at the mention of Ser Jory. Jory had been rather a tool to most of the elves in the camp. He’d be keeping an eye out to make sure any elves in his company actually _wanted_ to be there.

 

“That makes things easy, then. They’ll both be back with Duncan by now.”

 

“I look forward to traveling with you.” The smile she gave him was the most unguarded, sweetest, and sincere Alistair thought he’d ever gotten. _So, this is what it feels like to take a brick to the side of the head without a helmet on._

 

“You do? Huh. That’s a switch.” Thankfully, the mouth demon appeared to be taking a nap. “If you have any questions, let me know. Otherwise, lead on!”

 

Their strides became more purposeful, but before Duncan and the other recruits spotted them, Alistair’s brain re-engaged for a moment and he gently tugged her hand. “By the way, what is your name? I can’t just call you mage, or Lady Mage for the rest of your life.”

 

“Oh!” Yes, he was thoroughly smitten. Full smit had been achieved. She was just too pretty when she blushed, and he was pretty sure he would run naked at the darkspawn horde if she asked when she smiled at him again. “I’m Gwyneth Surana. But _you_ can call me Gwyn.”


	19. Once was Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A reunion with someone thought dead
> 
> Fen'lath Lavellan thought she was alone after Corypheus was defeated and Solas disappeared. Four months after, she finds out differently.

The gardens were quiet. When Fen’lath was in them, sitting in the sun on one of the benches, the denizens of Skyhold knew that she was not to be disturbed. Mother Giselle had tried once. Traces of the inferno that had chased the busybody Chantry Mother away still blackened a few of the stones that formed the winding paths through the trees and bushes. Cassandra and Josephine watched her from the portico, concern keeping them from the other matters of the Inquisition.

 

“Still no sign of Solas?” Cassandra wrung her hands. If she ever got ahold of that elf, after he helped Fen and the baby, she was going to give him the thrashing of his life.

 

“None. Lel--Divine Victoria--still has people looking and placing copies of her letter in every ruin they come across.”

 

“Maker, I hope we can do something for them.”

 

“As do I, my friend.” Josephine was without her note board for once. She was alternating between clasping her hands and tapping her fingers on the stone wall. “Neither the College nor the re-formed Circle has been able to come up with anything, even with Cole’s assistance.”

 

“Seeker, Ambassador.” Both heads turned. The messenger hung back in the doorway from the great hall. He waited for Josephine to wave him over before approaching. Jim had apparently learned the finer points of observational skills since interrupting Cullen and Lady Enchanter Amell during a private moment on the battlements not too long ago and earning himself latrine duty for a month.  Cassandra eyed him, “What is it, Jim?”

 

“There’s a Dalish man outside the gates who claims to know the Inquisitor and wishes to speak to her. A mage.”

 

Cassandra and Josephine looked at each other and shrugged. Most of the Lavellan Dalish had actively avoided Fen’lath after her _vallaslin_ had disappeared. A superstition about their goddess Mythal abandoning her for drinking from the Well of Sorrows, supposedly, even though she had gained the blessing of the Well’s Sentinels to do so. Josephine nodded, “Have him escorted in.”

 

Fen’lath had risen from her bench and was drifting along the paths. Her fingers floated over the blossoms on the bushes and they observed her in silence as they waited. Some birds chirped, calling to each other, and the door to the hall creaked open. Cassandra’s eyes widened, Josephine felt her jaw drop open in shock. The resemblance to Fen was unmistakeable. His obsidian hair was shot through with wide bars of silver at the temples, and the shape of his jaw more square, but his daughter had inherited the Fade colored eyes and his nose, along with the spray of freckles that graced it, from him. Dirthamen’s _vallaslin_ stood out from the dark bronze of his skin in pale blue.

 

Fen’lath’s father inclined his head to them and said, “ _Mythal’enaste_. You are Seeker Pentaghast and Ambassador Montilyet?”

 

Josephine started, then bowed, “Yes, and you are… Keeper Lavellan, are you not?”

 

“Keeper Yewvhan, or Yewvhan, please. I do not use Lavellan since I am acting as Keeper for clan Boranehn in Ferelden.” He looked past them, into the garden. “Please, is my daughter--”

 

He choked off when he spotted her, wobbling and supported only by his grip on his Keeper’s staff, then called out, “ _Fen’len!_ ”

 

* * *

 

 

Fen’lath’s head whipped up when she heard the pet name she hadn’t been called by in thirteen years. A spirit-- _It has to be a spirit,_ Papae _is dead_ \--was with Josephine and Cassandra. Spirits didn’t age or grow out their hair, though. _Papae was alive?_ _Papae was **alive**!_ Stumbling forward a few steps, she stretched an uncertain hand towards him and whispered, “ _Papae?_ ”

 

He darted around the columns, staff clattering to the stone, forgotten. Bursting into the sunlight, his arms were thrown wide, whooping in the voice she had missed, “ _Fen’len! Mir da’len!_ ”

 

“ _Papae! Papae!_ ” She threw herself at her father, tucking herself into his arms before bursting into tears. “We thought you were dead in the Blight!”

 

“ _Fen’len_ , oh my little girl.” Yewvhan’s voice was rough and breaking with tears as he rocked back and forth, holding Fen against him and pressing his cheek to her forehead. “ _Ir abelas, mir da’len_. Boranehn was in a bad way after the Blight and during we could not get a messenger out because the traitor _shem_ Loghain had closed the borders.”

 

“And after? The Blight lasted only a year, _Papae_.” Fen’s voice was muffled in the thick cloak Yewvhan had worn on the trek through the Frostbacks. “King Alistair and the Warden are known to be friends of the Dalish.”

 

“The Arl. He put many of Edgehall’s elves to the sword the year after the Blight ended when they rebelled against his treatment, and our trade was not welcome anywhere but the Alienage. No messengers would talk with us for fear of the Arl, and we could not spare a hunter to run to another clan or risk starving.” Yewvhan’s voice went hard. “Four years of that nonsense, and then he cut down and burned the Alienage’s _vhenadahl_.”

 

“He didn’t! Why haven’t any of the other clans heard of this?” Fen exclaimed, head whipping up and nearly cracking on Yewvhan’s chin.

 

“That’s not all, Fen’len. He killed many of the clan when we helped the Alienage elves fight back against the Arl after he confiscated the sapling we gave to them to replace the old _vhenadahl_.” He sighed heavily. “A knight in the King’s service managed to settle the matter, and the _hahren_ and I planned to move the clan to the Brecilian Forest to see if the clans there had any who would be interested in helping expand our number. We would also be able to send a messenger from Gwaren since the Warden is their Teyrna. Then…”

 

“Kirkwall, and the mages and Templars.”

 

“Yes. It wasn’t safe for us to travel that far. But to know I was so close to my _da’len_ while the sky was torn--” Yewvhan choked off and hugged Fen’lath fiercely. “I am so proud of you, _Fen’len_.”

 

“You barely got a look at me, _Papae_ ,” Fen’s voice was small, “Don’t say anything you might not be sure of later.”

 

He pulled back, grasping her shoulders and taking a good look. Lips pressed together in worry when he registered her bare face and the scars from Haven, then both his brows near shot up to his hairline when he noticed the roundness of her belly. “ _Fen’len_ , are you bonded?”

 

Fen sighed. She dragged him to the bench in the sun, “Sit, _Papae_. You’ll need to.”

 

She fidgeted, then asked as she picked at her leggings, “What have you heard about the advisors I had during the fight against Corypheus? Specifically my arcane advisor, Solas?”

 

“That was his name? I had heard some of him. Very knowledgeable, but some very controversial ideas that he tried to present as truths to the clans he met before the Breach.”

 

Fen’lath sighed, “I believe they may actually be the truth, _Papae_. He’s the one who removed my _vallaslin_. He said that in the time of Arlathan, they were slave markings. I--I could not bear to have them on my face after that.”

 

“Why would you believe him, da’len?” Yewvhan reached up to touch his own _vallaslin_ , dedicating him to the keeper of secrets.

 

“He--he is an ancient, Papae. One of the true _elvhen_ , and a Dreamer. I suspected before the _vir’abelasan_ , but the events there confirmed it for me.”

 

“...”

 

“Yes, _Papae_.”

 

“Then the things he said about the Creators?”

 

“They are most likely true. It’s why Keeper won’t let me come back to Wycome.”

 

“ _Fen’len?_ ”

 

“Yes, _Papae_?” Her eyes glittered with tears when she met her father’s eyes.

 

“Is he the father?”

 

“Yes, _Papae_. But--the Anchor,” She lifted her marked hand, showing him the seam of green resting in the palm, “It’s killing him. My people are trying to find Solas, but we don’t have much time. None of the other mages have come up with anything to stop it. He was the only one who knew enough about the energies and who has any chance of stabilizing it and saving my baby.”

 

“Oh, _Fen’len_ …” Yewvhan pulled her head into his shoulder. “My First was expecting to keep the clan running for at least a few months as it was. I’ll stay here with you to help care for you. I will do what I can to improve my grandson’s chances, and if… if he goes to Falon’din, or whomever... I will be with you to guide him on his way.”

 

Fen’lath let out a shuddering breath, “Thank you, _Papae_.”

 

The afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves of the tree over them as they sat in silence, overwhelmed at being reunited after so long apart.


	20. In Which Sebastian is the Reasonable One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sun, sand, annoyed, brown
> 
> All Souls Day is coming, and Marian can't take Anders and Fenris bickering anymore.

“Blighted Qunari… Blighted demons… Blighted sand…” Marian sat on a rock and dumped at least a third of the Wounded Coast out of her boots yet _again_. She glared at Fenris, Anders, and Sebastian. “How do you keep sand from getting into your boots? I mean, Fenris only has footwraps so I imagine it just falls out, but _you_ two!”

 

“Unlike some people present, I pick up _my_ feet when I walk, instead of shuffling,” Anders sniffed.

 

Fenris snorted, then held out a hand to help Hawke back to her feet, which instantly sunk back into the sand again. She could feel the grains seeping back into her boots already. Sebastian simply smiled and said, “It’s a secret. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you.”

 

“As if you could. Save it for the blasted demons,” she grumbled in annoyance as they picked their way back to the camp where Merrill, Aveline, Isabela, and Varric waited. The dull brown of the Coast was baking in the August sun, and Hawke had a moment of longing for Lothering, and the cold waters of the river beyond the northern fields. Bethany, Carver, and she had spent many a summer splashing about after the work was done. _Bethany…_ All Souls Day was coming up. Another year without her baby sister, and another year of her mother weeping and asking why Hawke hadn’t saved her, and Carver slinking around the estate being morose with Knight-Commander Meredith’s blessing. She was yanked out of her reverie when Anders piped up, poking at Fenris, “Did you ever think about killing yourself?”

 

Hawke nearly whipped herself in the face with the short braided pigtails she’d tied her hair into after finding the Qunari patrol and killing the demons with how fast her head snapped up. Fenris glowered at Anders through the fall of his hair, “I could ask _you_ the same thing.”

 

Sebastian, bringing up the rear, shot her a pained look but also mouthed “ _Not getting involved_.”

 

“I'm serious. To get out of slavery, to escape Danarius... don't tell me you never thought about it.” The tone of his voice seemed curious and sincere, not meant to annoy for once. Anders actually pulled off the heavy leather coat he normally wore with its ridiculous feathered capelet, draping it over the end of his staff for some relief from the summer heat, grey undertunic soaked through with sweat.

 

“I did not. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.” Fenris's shoulders hunched forward more than normal, even as Sebastian’s eyes widened in surprise.

 

“You... believe that?” Anders looked no less shocked.

 

“I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery.” An olive glare through silver strands.

 

“Some things are worse than death.” Whiskey-dark eyes snapped with righteous indignation in return.

 

“Stop, both of you. For just one day, an hour.” She couldn’t take any more talk of death, or the thought of losing Fenris, even if it would have been before she’d ever met him. The tightness in her chest from thinking about Bethany made her sound breathless, and Hawke spun around, striding up the path and out of sight. Her steps were so quick and hurried she didn’t even get any more sand in her boots.

 

* * *

 

Sebastian looked after her, then shook his head and Fenris and Anders. “Can you not give her a _moment_ of respite, please? Something is obviously weighing heavily on her mind.”

 

The elf and mage both muttered like scolded children as they followed after Hawke to the camp. When they arrived, she was nowhere in sight, and the rest of their party obviously knew something they had done had upset her. Aveline looked ready to hit them with her shield, Isabela had that smirk she got when she sensed a pot to stir, Merrill’s eyes were wide with worry, and Varric was polishing Bianca in a way that made Anders clear his throat in nervousness.

 

“Alright, gents, I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say Broody and Blondie got into it _again_. You two are going to sit here like naughty children and let Aveline yell at you for a bit while Choir Boy goes down to the beach and makes sure Hawke is okay.”

 

“You two dunderheads _do_ realize that with All Souls Day coming up in a few days, Leandra’s going to be browbeating Hawke about her sister’s death again, don’t you?” Avenline snapped out.

 

Fenris winced and hunched in on himself again, then growled out, “I am _not_ a child to be scolded. I will keep watch while Sebastian speaks with Hawke, and I will make my own apologies after.”

 

“That sounds like an _excellent_ \--”

 

“Oh no you don’t, Anders. You’re staying here, where Fenris is _not_.” Aveline really did look like she was going to wallop Anders with her shield if he didn’t stay put, so he plopped down next to Merrill and began helping her clean elfroot to take to Lady Elegant for potions with a mutinous expression on his face.

 

Sebastian and Fenris followed Hawke’s footprints to the crest of the ridge they camped on, and Fenris faltered when they spotted her staring out over the waves, arms wrapped around her waist. “Have you not made your feelings for her clear, Fenris?”

 

“I--don’t know? I was rather drunk when I told her of my escape from Seheron," Fenris paused, going over his memories from that night.

 

"She said there was no one else who held her interest." He shifted uneasily. Sebastian just nodded, and Fenris blurted out, "What do I have to offer her?”  It was not easy to name what he felt for Marian, even with Sebastian, except to say that she was the _one_ mage on Thedas he would trust at his back under any circumstances.

 

“Sometimes, a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen with are what is needed most, even if you do not have the words.” Sebastian left Fenris to consider his words; he carefully made his way down to the soft sand of the beach. He stopped next to the silent woman, crossing his arms over his chest and considering the waves. His boots were made to keep water out as well as sand, so he paid no mind to the waves washing about their toes. Hawke had discarded her boots and rolled up her green leggings, feet slowly sinking into the sand as the surf washed over them. “I’m sorry about your sister, Hawke. If she was anything like you, she was an example of what people and mages everywhere should strive to be.”

 

“Maker, she was not like me. Bethany was Mother’s favorite because she was a mini-Mother. She liked dresses and embroidery and feminine pursuits, and she was terrified of her magic. We found out I was a mage when I pulled Carver out of the hayloft with magic when he was four. She found out she was a mage by accidentally blowing up a barrel of lamp oil and burning the barn down.” Hawke wiped at her cheeks and forehead, acting like she was ridding herself of sweat instead of wiping away tears. “Father managed to get her to learn enough to control it, and some work with a halberd so she could have a staff to focus with, but after he died she actively avoided using it unless she absolutely had to. I wonder if I should have badgered her to practice more, then maybe she would have been able to protect herself from that ogre.”

 

“You cannot change the past. You are not responsible for Bethany’s death.  Do not place that death anywhere but in the hands of the ogre and the archdemon." Sebastian picked up a rock, and sent it skipping into the waves. "If you like, I can subtly harp on your mother to leave you be on All Souls Day, since she seems to fancy coming to the Chantry Prince after confession.”

 

Sebastian gave her a gentle nudge with his shoulder, a wistful grin softening his face, “My mother always said the Amells were the best family in Kirkwall, and you certainly live up to that, no matter the difference in last name. I can remind your mother of all the good you’re doing for Kirkwall.”

 

Hawke laughed, “Flatterer. Did your mother really say that, or is that a line from your wild days?”

 

“Andraste as my witness, she did. I do not need to flatter you with the truth, Hawke.” She rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the side, then spit out a rather lurid curse and rubbed at the sore spot she’d given herself clipping the edge of his chestplate. “ _Maker_ , Hawke, _language!_ ”

 

Hawke just rolled her eyes at him again. He slung his arm around her shoulders to give her a gentle squeeze, “Are you ready to speak to Fenris, or do you need a few more minutes to yourself?”

 

She shrugged, arms going back around her waist. Sebastian looked at her, then beckoned to Fenris while walking back up the ridge. “Remember what I said, my friend.”

 

* * *

 

Stopping a few feet from the waves, Fenris loosened the wraps on his feet and rolled them up with his own leggings, then joined Hawke. “I am not good with words, Hawke, but I _am_ sorry. I should not rise to his bait. I cannot promise to keep my temper, but I _do_ promise to try.”

 

Marian nodded, the ocean breeze whipping soft black strands that had escaped the short braids around her face. Fenris unclipped his chestplate and shoulder guards, then tossed them up in the sand next to her boots. Uncomfortable in only the soft underpadding, he turned to her and held out his arms awkwardly. Tilting her head to the side, she huffed out, “What _are_ you doing, Fenris?”

 

“I am attempting to be a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen, since I don’t have the words to comfort you. I may never have them, but I can try as often as you have need of me.” Marian felt herself melt a little as he kept his arms spread out, reminding her of a rather grumpy owl she’d seen trying to dry out its wing feathers after a rainstorm once. She walked into them, resting her forehead on his neck. Fenris closed his arms around her, and tilted his cheek down onto her hair. “You do realize you still have shade ash all over you, right? Now I have shade ash all over my undershirt. I’m doing this for you, Hawke.”

 

Her laughter rang over the beach, clear as a bell, before being swallowed by the sound of the waves.

 


	21. Dragon of Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Battle, red, desperation, sword
> 
> Gwyneth Surana and Alistair face the Archdemon Urthemiel atop Fort Drakon in the Battle of Denerim.

“First order of business as king, I’m getting a pulley system of some sort installed so we can bypass all these stairs,” Alistair gasped to Gwyneth as they finally reached the top of Fort Drakon. She nodded in agreement, bent over with hands on knees and heaving in deep breaths of air. Hero flopped at her feet, panting and lolling his tongue out the side of his mouth. Even having adapted to wearing heavy armor and wielding a sword and shield as an Arcane Warrior, Gwyn had done that fighting on mostly even ground, and in short skirmishes. The smoke from the burning buildings down below the Fort blocked the sun and made it impossible to tell how long it had been since they had engaged the darkspawn forces in Denerim’s streets. Everything glowed red from the fires, and the sounds of battle were dim now that they were at the top of the Fort.

 

Gwyn’s muscles were trembling with exhaustion from fighting for so long, and she swore Duncan’s sword weighed as much as Sten now. Alistair offered her a canteen of water, and she took a swig to wash the taste of ash and darkspawn gore from her mouth. He didn’t look much better than she, shoulders drooping forward, and as he adjusted his shield on his arm, she could see the tremor from bearing the weight. A sudden splash of healing energy washed over them, and the shaking stopped. Wynne nodded to both of them, and they turned to the Blighted dragon lurching about and shrieking in rage. 

 

Somewhere far below, Elissa Cousland and Bann Teagan were leading the King’s Army against the remaining horde. Sten and Oghren were holding the city gates, Morrigan and Shale the Fort entrance. She and Alistair were accompanied to the top of the tower by a force lead by Arl Eamon, First Enchanter Irving, Kardol, and Leliana as well as Wynne. Zevran was inside the Fort with orders to ensure that Anora stayed put, and to help Elissa keep the throne should Alistair fall. The Archdemon Urthemiel roared at them, torn wing flapping in a useless attempt to lift off from the roof of the fort. Gwyn yelled at Alistair, “Remember, we have to stay back if it gets out of range to make sure one of us survives to kill it.”

 

The untorn wing caused a great puff of air to sweep across the stonework, and all of them had to brace against it, Leliana grabbing Wynne as she was blown back a pace. Irving and Eamon almost flipped over Kardol, who wrapped his arms around the mens’ knees and bent into the rush, solid in his armor and dwarven stoutness. With another roar, the Archdemon snapped at Alistair, who dashed forward with a quick bash of his shield against its scaled snout, and he cried “For the Grey Wardens! For Ferelden!”

 

In Alistair’s hand, Maric’s sword slashed across the high dragon’s nose, parting the scales and splashing the first trace of Blighted blood across the stones. Gwyneth yelled, “If you’re not a Warden, don’t touch the blood or get any in your mouth!” 

 

The dragon shrieked and Leliana opened fire, peppering its side with arrows. Gwyn stumbled back as a few hit at bad angles and rebounded off, holding her shield above her head to protect herself. Kardol stepped in and slashed at one of the legs, aiming for the tendons at the ankles. One hit managed to damage the protective scales, but the dragon lifted the leg and swatted out with it, and Gwyn took the blow full on her shield, tumbling backwards. 

 

Kardol ran over and helped her up, shouting over the dragon’s roars, “Sorry about that, Warden!”

 

She nodded to him, and rushed back in. The world narrowed to the dance of battle, weaving around kicking legs, swinging tail, flapping wings. The dragon lifted off and out of reach, and she and Alistair scrambled to the old ballistae, wrenching one around and aiming it at the beast. Winching the massive bolt back, Gwyn screamed out, “Mages!”

 

The battle-ready mages who had survived the streets of the city shot out of the stairwell, flinging whatever spells they could at the Archdemon as the bolt sailed over their heads and struck the dragon. Alistair grabbed another bolt and loaded it in, helping her winch it back and sending it flying as well. Halfway through winching back the third bolt, the mechanism jammed and Alistair called to Leliana, “Leliana, this is jammed, see if you can do something about it!”

 

The former laysister nodded, slinging her bow back and leaping a fallen mage to look at the ballista. Suddenly, the Archdemon roared and leap-flapped across a deep fissure in the roof, too far for any using swords to reach. Darkspawn poured out of the fissure, and the mages fell back while Alistair boomed out, “Redcliffe, to me!”

 

“Hero, go!” The mabari was off like an arrow, dodging between mages and tearing into the darkspawn with a snarl that was audible even above the crash of armor and pounding of feet.

 

Warriors from Redcliffe took the place of the mages, allowing them to rest. Swords clashed and shrieks attempted to swarm the retreating mages. Gwyn dropped her sword and flung a hand out quickly, scribing a paralysis glyph between the mages and shrieks, then turned back to the ballista when Leliana yelled, “Got it!”

 

She and Alistair fell back into a rhythm of loading ballista bolts and firing them. The Archdemon was starting to resemble a pincushion, and Gwyn boggled at how strong it must be to still be able to spit flame and magic at them from its perch. With a great crash, the corrupted god slammed down from its perch into the fray, knocking men and darkspawn out of its way and crushing them indiscriminately as it heaved around. It was weakening. “Elves, mages, anyone left!”

 

Dalish archers, a handful of weary-looking mages, and some Redcliffe reinforcements joined in as a fresh wave of darkspawn poured forth. The archers, fresh and alert, were able to take out the darkspawn reinforcements quickly, Hero darting to and fro to finish off injured ones, then all were able to focus on the Archdemon. The dragon started to stumble, splashing wide swathes of blood across the stones. Alistair pointed his sword at Eamon and Irving, “Get everyone back! Do it!”

 

Archers, mages, and warriors fell back at Eamon’s command, amplified with Irving’s magic. Gwyneth and Alistair shot forward, renewed by another wave of healing from Wynne. Kardol, stubborn dwarf, was harrying the Archdemon by dodging between its back legs and slicing at the tendons again before dashing away. Gwyn drove her sword into its side with all her strength and used her weight to pull down, slicing a great gouge in its belly as Alistair slammed his shield across its wounded nose. 

 

Finally, the dragon attempted to fly away, only to slam back to the fortress roof mere yards from where it had taken off. Gwyneth dropped her sword and shield, arms numb, and exhausted to the verge of tears. Alistair limped towards the thrashing beast, determined to end the monster, and her heart seized. What if Morrigan’s ritual hadn’t worked? The surge of fear powered her forward, and she snatched up a sword from one of the fallen men. She shot past Alistair and heard him scream, “Gwyn,  _ no! _ ”

 

Urthemiel reared his head, screaming in anger and attempted to snap at her. The sword caught under the jaw and her momentum carried her and the blade in a long, sickening slice down its neck, spattering her with burning blood. The head dropped, eye fixed on her, open and glassy in death. In it, she saw Duncan and Cailan, all her friends in the Tower who had died, the destroyed town of Lothering. Loghain and Howe, and the elves sold as slaves to Tevinter. “Gwyn, please! Don’t! Let me!”

 

She swung the sword up with a scream and plunged it into the head. Urthemiel had been the Dragon of Beauty, the legends said, and the light that poured forth  _ was  _ beautiful. And  _ terrible _ . And  _ painful _ . It sang along Gwyn’s bones and screamed in her ears and burned through her with a wonderful raw power like she’d never known. It pulled on something in her, and for a moment she was terrified that Morrigan’s ritual hadn’t worked and she was dying. Her head dropped to the side, and she saw Alistair being bathed in the light too, and gritting his teeth like it was pulling on him. 

 

The explosion of Urthemiel’s release flung her back, and the world went dark. 

* * *

“Gwyn! Maker,  _ please _ , Gwyn! Open your eyes, please!” Alistair was pleading with her as Hero whined and licked at Gwyn’s hand. He bent over her prone form, desperately praying for her to be alright. She was breathing, but what good was breathing if she didn’t  _ wake? _ He hunched over, pulling her closer to his chest, “Please, Gwyn. I’m  _ begging  _ you, please.”

 

She let out a groan, eyes fluttering, burned hands clutching and then falling limply at her sides. “Alistair?”

 

“Gwyn! Oh, thank the Maker!” He gestured for Wynne to come closer so she could check Gwyneth over.

 

“Alistair?” Gwyn cracked her eyes and licked dry, cracked lips. “I’ve decided something.”

 

“What’s that, my love?”

 

“You definitely get to kill the next Archdemon. I’m  _ done _ .”

  
  



	22. Midnight Snack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pie Challenge!Prompt 1: Pies, kitchen, hot, green and red, affection
> 
> When one is denied their favorite pie, sometimes drastic measures must be taken.

Fen snuck into the Skyhold kitchens, knowing that at this late hour, Cook would be asleep and would have left the pies unguarded. Wrapped feet allowed her to slip past the guards patrolling the main hall with no troubles. After the debacle at Halamshiral, she didn’t care _one single_ jot if the Orlesian dignitaries Celene sent were impressed by the variety of baked goods presented during their visit or not. Briala would keep Orlais toeing the Inquisition line; Fen had given her the power to balance her relationship with the Orlesian Empress.

 

Also, she wanted the berry and cream pie Cook only made for special occasions. She’d worn _shoes_. Make-up. Had her hair pulled, twisted, and piled up into ridiculousness. Stuffed what assets she had into a corset and _fought_ in it! Had bloody Orlesian shems trying to _pinch her and grope her_ , and she couldn’t slap their hands away without Josephine flapping over and preventing ‘diplomatic incidents’ because they couldn’t _keep their bloody hands to themselves_ with an elf. Fen paused and made a mental note to get a gift for Cullen. He’d been manhandled just as much as she had been, if not _more_ and Josephine hadn’t exactly provided him any backup. In the meantime, surely she deserved _one_ pie, and despite her pleas, Cook wouldn’t make an extra for her.

 

“Cook is a _tyrant_ ,” she muttered to herself as she surveyed the rows of pies cooling on the shelves lining the side of the kitchen. _Apple, some sort of nut pie, ooo, custard! No, focus, berry and cream, berry and cream… Aha!_ Fen hissed as the pan burned her fingers, too hot to actually handle. She wasn’t the best at ice magic, but a quick rime of frost on her fingers and on the pan, and she was creeping back out of the kitchen. Before she fully escaped, she noticed the frilly cakes that Solas loved.

 

Laid out in neat flower patterns of alternating colors on serving platters, they were lovely, the icing still glossy without the finishing powdered sugar. Looking at her pie, and the door she’d left open to the main hall, she quickly swiped a platter of red and green cakes. “Cook is a tyrant, and she’s going to _murder_ me.”

 

Maintaining a delicate balance, she pondered using her toes to pull the door closed, then decided against it. Cook was already going to be furious about the pie and cakes, if she found out the Inquisitor’s feet had touched the door handle to her domain, there was no place on Thedas Fen would be safe from her wrath.

 

“Inquisitor?” A Starkhaven brogue came from behind her.

 

“Creators _fucking_ dammit!” She squeaked and jumped about a foot in the air.

 

Fen whirled around, nearly sending some of the cakes off the edge of the platter. The guardsmen, Brayden, snickered and pulled the kitchen door shut. He sketched a small bow to her and eyed the platter of cakes and the pie, then looked towards the rafters innocently.

 

“I saw _nothing_ , Fen.”

  
“Ah, _thank you_ , Brayden,” she held the platter to him, “Cake?”

 

Brayden took one and took a large bite, then followed her to her chamber door, still chuckling. As he held the door open for her, Fen turned to him, “Thank you again, Brayden. Although you may want to get the frosting out of your mustache _before_ Cook wakes up.”

 

He swiped at his bushy carrot-orange  mustache and grumbled, “She’s going to come after me with one of those spoons of hers, I just know it.”

 

“Just tell her I ordered you to help me,” Fen stood on tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. He was one of the good eggs in the keep, treating her like a younger sister instead of bowing and scraping and titling her to death. “She’ll come after _me_ with the wooden spoon instead.”

 

“Goodnight, Lady Fen.” Brayden stuck his tongue out after using the title as she rolled her eyes at him, then closed the chamber door. Fen skipped up the steps and carefully set her pie and the cakes on the little table that had been brought up with dinner.

 

Solas was in bed, the deep wine curtains at the foot parted to let in some of the heat from the fire still crackling in the grate. He was on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow and the other clutching her pillow to his side where she'd stuck it when she'd escaped his clutches to fetch dessert. Fen parted the curtains next to his face and knelt.  She folded her arms and rested her chin on them, studying his face while he slept. There was the little scar on his forehead, the one he never explained. The grooves from wrinkling his brow while reading and pondering were relaxed into near-invisibility with sleep.

 

One arm slipped free, and Fen gently traced one brow. Maybe he’d grow his hair out if she asked him. Would it be the same lovely copper color of his eyebrows, or more auburn? He had a small spatter of freckles, just across the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheeks. They were darker from being dragged to every corner of Orlais and Ferelden, most recently the Western Approach and Hissing Wastes prior to Halamshiral.

 

The questing finger tapped the dimple in his chin, and Fen murmured, “Solas, _vhenan_ , wake up.”

 

“Mmmh.”

 

“I have dessert. Berry and cream pie.”

 

“Mmrph.”

 

“I also have frilly cakes.”

 

One eye cracked open, “Frilly cakes?”

 

“Yes, without the powdered sugar.” Fen leaned forward and rubbed her nose against Solas’s. “Come help me hide the evidence from Cook.”

 

“A worthy endeavor.”

 

He stood up and stretched while she fetched an unused fork from the remains of dinner. Josephine and Vivienne still insisted she get a full service’s worth of utensils, leaving her with what felt like twelve different forks, spoons, knives, and other accouterments that were never touched. A fork was a fork when it came to eating privately.  Fen glanced up, and quirked her mouth into a grin when she saw Solas’s leggings had fallen low on his hips, revealing the dimples at the base of his spine she loved. The grin quickly turned to a pout when he pulled the leggings back up into place. _Goodbye, back dimples_. She sorted through the silverware again, looking for one of the smaller forks instead of the one that was near the size of a shovel that she set aside.

 

“ _Vhenan?_ ”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Were you wearing _that_ when you went to the kitchens and absconded with our dessert?”

 

Fen looked down at her breast band and leggings. “ _Oh!_ ...Well… Keeper _did_ always scold me for wanting to not wear anything but smalls when I was overly warm, so this is improvement?”

 

He slapped a hand to his forehead while she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes. She didn’t recognize all of the swear words Solas used, but she did know that ‘infuriating woman’ and ‘be the death of me’ were in there. The platter of frilly cakes rose from the table and waved at him invitingly, “Frilly cakes?”

 

“Thank you,” He took the platter and settled into the settee that they had dragged to the fire earlier in the evening. “I will be wanting a bite of the pie, as well. Consider it my fee for putting up with your exhibitionism.”

 

Small fork stabbed firmly into the middle of the berry and cream pie, Fen plonked down next to him, leaning her head on his shoulder and elbowing him in the side. “You know you love me, now eat your cake.”


	23. A Fine Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I thought I smelled something baking.... it's late. Why are you baking a pie so late?"
> 
> and
> 
> Prompt: Flour, baked and unbaked pies, embarrassment, blue
> 
> Gwyneth Surana discovers Alistair's hidden talent.

Gwyneth shuffled towards the Denerim palace kitchen, and her plans for a cup of tea to help her get back to sleep quickly evaporated. The scent of something baking wafted out of the kitchens, but the cooks would definitely be done with the day's baking by now. Why had she left her staff in her rooms? She wrestled one of the swords away from one of the decorative coats of arms on the wall, and crept to the partially open door. Nudging it open wider, Gwyn gawked at the scene before her. A dusting of flour covered the countertops, the floor-- _Maker, how did it get on the_ ceiling _?!_ \--and one very embarrassed Alistair, who was surrounded by what appeared to be pies in various stages of baking. 

 

“Um, I can explain?”

 

"I thought I smelled something baking... it's late. Why are you baking pies so late?" 

 

She propped the sword against the wall and blinked at him owlishly, trying to comprehend why the king, of all people, would have three dozen pies baking. 

 

Alistair grinned sheepishly. “Last week you mentioned the apple pies you’d get sometimes in the Circle. After that, Elissa said she missed Highever apples, and Fergus has sent a few bushels as a present to give to Elissa on Moira’s nameday next week, so I thought I’d try my hand at apple pie for the three best ladies in my life.”

 

Gwyn blinked, “Ali? You could barely _cook_ three years ago, how are _you_ able to bake pies?”

 

“I am _full_ of surprises, Gwyn. Besides, I told you cooking wasn’t a talent of mine. When I was a boy, though, Mistress Edella, the baker, would have me help her roll out the pie dough to keep me occupied and out of Lady Isolde’s sight.” Alistair turned to one of the cooling pies, and cut a slice from it. Placing the steaming slice on a plate, he held it out, “Try this for me?”

 

Warily, Gwyn took the plate and gave it a delicate sniff, visions of Alistair’s ‘traditional’ lamb and pea stew dancing in her memory. They were quickly banished by the mouth-watering scent of butter, baked apple, cinnamon, and sugar. “Maker, Alistair, _you_ made this?”

 

“Don’t sound so surprised, Gwyn! I think I’ve done well enough as king that you can have a _little_ faith that I won’t muck up everything I touch by now.”

 

“If this tastes as good as it smells, I think your talents would have been wasted in the Wardens, and we should have you baking for any ambassadors who visit from now on.”

 

“ _Great_ , like they don’t look down their noses at me enough already.”

 

“Their poor taste in royalty is not our failing.” Gwyn searched around, realizing she’d never actually seen where the silver was kept. “Forks?”

 

“Um, one second.” Alistair quickly used one of the bread paddles to pull two pies from the oven and place two more in, then crossed the kitchen and dug around in a truly massive chest. He presented the fork to her with a bow and a flourish. “For my dearest lady.”

 

“Thank you, Ser Flour-faced.” She tapped the tip of his nose with a smile, leaving a clean spot in the fine dusting that still covered him. A delighted groan left her as she took the first bite. It was perfect. 

 

“I take it that’s a good thing?”

 

Gwyn only nodded at Alistair as she tucked in. He kept an eye on the pies in the ovens and started cleaning up the flour as best he could.  When the pies baking seemed done, he would stop sweeping or washing and pull them out and replace them with fresh ones to bake. Eventually they ended up leaning against each other, watching the pies in the ovens. 

 

“Alistair? Gwyneth? It’s almost four bells, what in the Maker’s name are you two doing in there? Are you in the cheese _again_ , Alistair?” A bleary-eyed Elissa peeped into the kitchens, dark auburn hair in a tumble. 

 

“Liss, what are you doing up?” Gwyn sat up and away from Alistair. Even though Elissa had stated time and again she had no objections to Gwyneth and Alistair’s relationship, Gwyn always felt a need to maintain a measure of respect for Alistair’s marriage when Elissa was present. 

 

“Moira was fussy and needed a feeding,” she paused and took in the rows of pies, and the smears of flour that still dusted parts of the kitchens and her husband. “This is a fine mess, but those pies look delicious. Did you make them, Alistair?”

 

Alistair turned red. “I might have. Why is everyone so _surprised_ that I can bake?”

 

“It’s good to have surprising talents. I can wiggle my ears and touch my tongue to the tip of my nose.” Elissa leaned over the pie with the slice out of it and inhaled. “Oh, Maker, apple pie. I haven’t had any since…”

 

Her eyes went distant, and she pulled her blue dressing gown closer, suppressing a shudder. “It’s been a _long_ time. May I?” 

 

Alistair nodded and fetched another plate and fork. Gwyn frowned at Elissa. “You can wiggle your ears and touch your tongue to your nose, you said?” 

 

“I did. Thank you, Alistair.” Elissa took the proffered plate from him and happily scooped a piece of crust into her mouth. 

 

“So the last Orlesian ambassador _wasn’t_ going mad! You actually were touching your tongue to your nose at him and stopping when he looked at you? And wiggling your ears whenever he talked with you?” Gwyn was aghast, and quite entertained. The previous Orlesian ambassador was an insufferable ponce who had pinched and groped her even after being introduced to her as the Chancellor and Warden-Commander of Ferelden. 

 

“Of course not, Gwyn. He was mad as a hatter, and if he hadn’t been sent back for his sanity, I would have been sending him back in _pieces_ for calling you a rabbit to my face.” The steely way Elissa said it made both Alistair and Gwyneth take a step back. 

 

Elissa smiled sweetly and held up her empty plate. “May I have another slice, Alistair?”

  
  



	24. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: One of your companions teaches them something new
> 
> Solas teaches Fen'lath how to Fade Step.

“What was _that?_ ” If she hadn’t been attempting to keep the bear attacking them from ripping her face off, Fen’lath would have stopped and stared in awe at Solas, who had just... _vanished_ from in front of the charging bear to its flank. It was a magic she had never seen before.

 

“Not the time, Grace!” Varric yelled at her as Bianca twanged and another bolt shot at the gigantic, roaring fury of tooth and claw that Cassandra was holding off with her shield. Fen whipped her staff around, using it as a focus for gathering ambient Fade energy and winding it like a spring, waiting for the perfect moment before slamming the blade into the soil at her feet, releasing a burst of lightning into the bear.

 

A sheet of ice locked the bear into place, allowing Cassandra to get her sword up and in, and the beast collapsed with a groan. Solas turned to Fen and raised a copper brow, tone turning a bit snide, “Do the Dalish not know how to Fade Step?”

 

She pressed her lips together and spun around, sending up a flare so Inquisition scouts could come and gather the carcass for meat and the hide. “I haven’t seen anyone do that particular type of magic before, no.”

 

“Imagine, Elvhen magics the _Dalish_ do not know.” Fen felt her cheeks heat, and kept marching forward, carefully pulling out the flowers she’d taken from the widower in Redcliffe and checking them for damage.

 

“Why did we come all the way out here when we are needed back in Haven, Herald?” Cassandra slung her shield onto her back and began wiping down her sword. “That strange Tevinter mage will be waiting for us in the Crossroads, and I doubt that he will be welcome.”

 

“The Iron Bull and Warden Blackwall went with him, Cassandra, and they should be able to vouch for him and keep him in line. And this is important. It’s not closing a rift, but providing comfort to an elderly widower is just as necessary when it feels like the world is falling apart. It provides a sense of stability.” She clambered up the hill and found the shrine, setting the bright blooms across the top of the little offering bowl, and reading the inscription aloud.

 

_Senna, beloved,_

_May your ashes be gathered by Falon'Din_

_and carried safely,_

_after all the long years you carried me._

 

“Right, back to Redcliffe right quick, and then on to meet up with Blackwall, The Iron Bull, and Dorian in the Crossroads.” She pulled her pack back into place, and started down the hill.

 

Fen was taken aback momentarily when Solas offered a hand to help her down after she skidded on some loose soil. “You are quite surprising, Lady Herald, both in your insight and your reasoning.”

 

“I--thank you, I think.” He simply nodded to her, then strode off to fetch their mounts, four Ferelden Forders that Horsemaster Dennet had given them to help their travels in the Hinterlands while he rounded up more horses to send on to Haven. Fen shook her head. She didn’t understand Solas.

* * *

 

 

Solas observed the Herald speaking to the widower, encouraging him to sit and talking softly, then taking something from him with an odd look on her face. Cassandra and Varric were looking over a bookseller’s cart, haggling over prices and arguing the quality of reading material in a back and forth quickly raising in volume. Fen’lath approached, her steps tentative, “May I ask you a question, Solas?”

 

“You may ask, but I may choose not to answer.” In his experience, the Dalish were overbearingly smug about their ‘knowledge’ of Elvhen lore, and he did not wish to be driven out of the Inquisition and lose his chance to recover his orb because he _offended_ their wolf cub, interesting though she was at times.

 

“That is fair.” She paused, then spoke carefully, “You heard the man say, when he asked us to visit Senna’s shrine that they tried to keep to the old ways, though they knew they were as children to me, yes?”

 

“Indeed.” Fen’lath waited for more, then sighed. She fidgeted, twisting her fingers around a small halla amulet on a leather thong. “Is that how the Dalish you approached treated you? Like a _child?_ ”

 

“A foolish child at best, a dangerous one to be driven off at worst.” He watched Fen’lath out of the corner of his eye, watching her run slender fingers over the amulet and ruminate.

 

“I’m sorry.” She looked up, Fade eyes meeting his as he turned to her in disbelief.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“I ignored you or scoffed at information freely offered because you were not Dalish, even though I myself know how resistant Dalish are to change. I apologize.” Contrition, real contrition, was on her face and in her voice.

 

“Apology accepted.” Solas placed a hand over hers tentatively, stilling her fidgeting fingers. He felt the need to make sure something of the Elvhen made its way into her hands. “On the way back to Haven, would you like for me to teach you how to Fade Step?”

 

Fen’lath lit up, “Are you _serious?_ Yes!”

 

“Then I shall do so. I warn you I am a taskmaster when it comes to teaching, Herald.”

* * *

 

“Remember, Fen’lath, pull the Fade around you and use it to _push_ you in the direction you wish to go. Don’t force it, just try to _feel_ it. Be a leaf on the wind.” Solas moved Fen’s arms in a motion like a bird flapping its wings, gesturing for her to repeat it, and then lifting her wrist and adjusting her hand, making sure her staff was angled just so.

 

“The last time I tried to be a ‘leaf on the wind’ I nearly impaled myself on my own staff, Solas.”  She dropped her arms, frustrated. Solas had been attempting to teach her to Fade Step the whole of the trip from the Crossroads to Haven, and in the three weeks Leliana had requested to have her people scout Redcliffe and the situation there, as well as gather information on Magister Alexius. So far, she could move forward faster, but the liquid, _misting_ slip into the Fade and out had so far eluded her.

 

“The principle is the same, but if that visual does not work, figure out something that feels more natural. It must feel natural, or the Fade Step will continue to elude you.”

 

Fen closed her eyes, pulling the Fade to her, wrapping around her like a cloak, building and billowing as she lifted her foot and prepared to Step forward. _What visual to use, though?_ A memory from her youth, eleven or twelve, sprang to mind. A white wolf exploding from its hiding place in the bushes, leaping across one of the tributaries of the Minanter to evade the clan’s scouts tracking it. The visual caught, _pulling_ on the gathered magic in a way that hadn’t happened in her other attempts. Her arms flowed and she pushed forward, eyes opening as the world misted and disappeared for a moment. Haven re-solidified, and she watched the icy cloud dissipate around her feet. The staff in her hand slid home in the sheath on her back, and Fen clapped her hands to her mouth.

 

“Excellent, Fen’lath! Perfectly executed,” Solas called to her from the other side of their training area.

 

Fen let out a happy shriek and bounced over to a startled Solas, leaping at him and giving him a tight hug. “I did it! _I did it!_ Oh, I have to go show Dorian! Thank you, Solas! _Thank you!_ ”

 

Skipping up the path to the stables and blacksmith, Fen almost danced with joy.

* * *

 

Solas watched Fen’lath go, effervescent in her triumph. Emotions warred in him. Satisfaction that she had finally Fade Stepped after banging her head against the proverbial wall for a month. Dismay that a skill that Elvhen children had learned almost as soon as they could walk had been lost to the shifts of time, and hadn’t made it to these shadows of what the Elvhen had once been. Most of all, he was disconcerted by the happiness that had bubbled up at the way the smile had lit Fen’s face, and the pleasure he had taken from a simple hug.


	25. Under Andraste's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: An average day in your protag's life before their journey began 
> 
> It's just the average day for Gwyneth Surana as a mage in Kinloch Hold. 
> 
> Warning for mentions of potentially disturbing content.

Though every day had started with the tolling of the bell for the Prime Chant since she had been brought to the Circle, Gwyneth Surana still rolled over and groaned into her pillow when it jolted her awake. She just  _knew_  that whomever had placed the bell in Kinloch Hold had looked for just the right place for it to ring everyone in the Apprentice’s Quarters awake. Thank the Maker mages weren’t required to attend Matins and Lauds with the Chantry sisters. Jowan, the heaviest sleeper, was muttering as his bunk bed creaked, signaling that he was getting up and preparing himself to shuffle to the Chantry. Today, though, there was one thing out of place. Solona Amell wasn’t leaning over from her bunk to make some dreadfully chipper and snarky remark.

 

Gwyn sat up, stomach twisting in fear. If Solona wasn’t there, it meant that she had been woken in the middle of the night to be taken to her Harrowing. Not surprising, really. With Anders escaping constantly and getting locked up in solitary for longer and longer stretches, and Wynne and the other Spirit Healers being called away to attend the King’s Army, Solona’s skills in Spirit Healing were in demand and necessary for keeping the Circle Chantry’s coffers full. At least twice a week before the other Healers had been called away, one would be rowed across Lake Calenhad to the docks to meet with someone of wealth or power to heal.

 

Pulling on her apprentice’s robes and sliding on her slippers, Gwyn shuffled to the Chantry with the others under the watchful eyes of the Templars. She strained to see around Jowan when she saw the Harrowed mages that remained in the tower were already seated, and breathed a sigh of relief when she spotted Sol’s chestnut head already bowed in prayer next to Anders’s, or more likely working on knitting another scarf or set of socks for him. The solitary cells were chilly on good days, and with winter fast approaching, it was almost certain he would need something warm when he inevitably escaped and got caught again.

 

As with many days, Gwyn and Jowan found themselves stuck behind Keili, who prayed the Chant loudly and nearly knocked First Enchanter Irving over in her haste to get to the confessional first. Maker knew what sins she had to confess to  _besides_  being a mage, which was what often rang out of the confessional while she was wailing at high volume. The Revered Mother waiting outside the confessional looked pleased and pained at the same time. The Mothers didn’t want their charges to forget their cursed state and to repent for it, but sometimes Gwyn wondered if they were taken aback by the zeal with which Keili hated herself.

 

The mages not waiting for confession were herded to breakfast by more Templars, not gently in some cases. Poor Finn was shoved flat on his face after taking too long walking through the door. An hourglass that measured fifteen minutes was turned by Ser Bran, all the time they had to gulp down their bowls of porridge and two small rashers of bacon before rushing back to the Chantry for Terce. It was abbreviated since Prime was so long, and by the end Gwyn’s stomach was roiling from having to shove breakfast down so quickly. The nausea thankfully passed as she was hurried off to glyph casting with a few other apprentices.

 

Irving had proudly declared her proficient weeks ago, so she was allowed to spend most of the time reading books on casting theory while the others practiced. She scratched down some notes after coming across a blurb in one of Brother Genitivi’s books saying that some Dalish mages could draw glyphs and runes with their toes. Useful if one’s hands were bound after being captured. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, Gwyn’s eyes flicked to the Templars at the sides of the room. Though they all wore their helms while the mages practiced, she could still feel their eyes watching everything. She had to suppress a shudder. Again the bell tolled and mages streamed from all over the tower back to the Chantry for Sext.

 

In the press of bodies in one of the doorways, Gwyn felt a metal-encased hand grab her buttocks and squeeze hard, pinching, intending to hurt. She flinched and hunched her shoulders, worming her way between two other robed bodies to get out of reach of whichever Templar it had been. There was no telling who it was in the press. She grabbed Solona and whispered desperately, “Don’t leave me alone today.”

 

Concern filled Sol’s grey-green eyes and she fluttered her fingers then patted the skirt of her robe, the signs Kinloch mages used to indicate the flames of the Templar heraldry and their armored skirts. Gwyn nodded and patted her elbow, indicating her bottom had been grabbed. Sol gave her a relieved nod. They all dreaded the day a friend patted their inner elbow, yawned and patted their mouth, or a female mage patted their bicep. A few days later, they were usually found in a darkened corner, robes torn, bodies bruised, and what innocence there was to be had living in a Circle shattered forever. Solona had handled a few of those in the infirmary, even being an apprentice, and her nightmares had woken Gwyn many nights.

 

The hard pews made her rump hurt, and by the end of the sermon, it was throbbing.

 

After the short service came lunch, but she couldn’t eat. Her eyes kept flicking to the Templars standing along the walls, wondering which one it had been, and if they were going to try again. Solona and Anders were whispering and glancing at her, Jowan blithely oblivious and asking if he could have her shepherd’s pie if she wasn’t going to eat it. Gwyn pulled the buttered roll off the plate and slid it to him, and he dug in. She slowly nibbled on the roll, the flavor like ash on her tongue.

 

The bell signalling None service clanged, but it was optional. The time between None and dinner was free time for Enchanters and the mages close to or who had passed their Harrowings. Solona pulled Gwyn to the library, both of them smiling at Ser Cullen, who turned bright red and ducked his head. Gwyn felt her cheeks and the tips of her ears heat. He was so shy, she was fairly certain he wasn’t the one who had grabbed her. If only she didn’t trip over her own tongue every time she tried to talk to him! The two of them casually ducked behind a stack of books, hidden from sight.

 

“Do you know which one it was, Gwyn?” Solona gestured for her to lift the skirts of her robe. She hissed, and Gwyn guessed there was probably a nasty bruise already.

 

“I don’t, they got me in the Chantry doorway right before Sext.” Gwyn let out a sigh of relief as cool healing magic washed over her, and the pain eased.

 

“Anders heard that Ser Brigit and Ser Kerwin were reported by the First Enchanter and had to clean the privies again. Although... Ser Brigit has never shown any interest in other women, so most likely Ser Kerwin.” Solona stopped, rearranging Gwyn’s robe and holding her shoulders, eyes filled with concern, “Be careful, Gwyn. You know Knight-Commander Greagoir will blame the mage any time it’s reported, and he’s got it out for you since you’re Irving’s star pupil. Remember what happened to Arlen.”

 

“I know, Sol. I know.” Gwyn shuddered, thinking of the Tranquil that helped Owain in the storerooms.

 

“You two! What are you doing back there?” Ser Drass’s voice rang through his helm, and Gwyn was sure he was glaring at them.

 

Solona replied softly, “ _Quietly_ , Ser Drass, if you please. I noticed Gwyneth didn’t eat very much at lunch. She has a bit of a headache and I’ve been healing it.”

 

The Templar stood quiet for a few moments, then barked at a much lower volume, “Very well, Mage Amell, but the two of you need to come out here where we can see you once it’s done.”

 

“Of course, Ser Drass.”

 

They dared not delay now that a Templar had noticed them, so Gwyn and Solana left the safety of the bookshelves and sat, reading books and turning pages without really seeing the words until the dinner bell rang. Vespers was chanted while they ate, and Gwyn found herself smiling for the first time that day when Anders commented that he couldn’t figure out how the lamb and pea stew could be both undercooked yet taste burned at the same time.

 

A few mouthfuls confirmed that the lamb was indeed undercooked, and the gravy scorched. Solona groaned, it meant she would likely have an infirmary full of food poisoning victims over the next day or so. The tension between Gwyn’s shoulders eased, feeling safer amongst her tiny group of friends. Too soon, the Templars were hurrying everyone out to clean the tower from top to bottom before Compline.

 

“Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him. Go with the Maker, and may He and Andraste forgive you. Walk always under Her eyes.”

 

Gwyn looked up at the statue of Andraste, as she had many times before leaving for the library to clean and grab a book to read before the lights were put out. She wondered what Andraste would make of the prison Her words had crafted for mages.


	26. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: An assassination attempt is made against your OC. Write about how they handle it or their LI handles it.
> 
> Even after Fen'lath saves Empress Celene, The Game is always in play in Orlais.

Fen'lath just wanted to go home. If she had to attend one more Orlesian fete where she got called a 'rabbit' or 'knife-ear' while being talked around like she wasn't even there, she was going to go insane. So she'd saved Empress Celene from assassination and ended the civil war. If she'd had the choice, Fen would have left Briala in charge all by herself. She was sure that the vapid, masked nobles surrounding her clucking like hens would have gone absolutely mad if she'd done so. As it was, she'd been abandoned to the nobles by Vivienne as soon as Madame de Fer had spotted an old acquaintance.

Solas appeared at her elbow, a gentle touch on her lower back, offering comfort even as he proffered a glass of wine. She smiled and nodded her thanks, taking the goblet. He leaned in and murmured, "The bird sings a song of warning. Real friends only."

The muscles in her shoulders tightened, and Fen lifted the goblet to her lips, breathing out, "Noted."

He bowed and left her in the circle of nattering nobles, immediately disappearing into obscurity by virtue of being an elf who wasn't the Inquisitor. Taking another sip of wine, Fen dipped her head once at Leliana, signalling that the message had been relayed. Food and drink from the hands of the Inner Circle alone.

Bloody blighter, how she wanted to get back to Skyhold, out of the corsets and ghastly hairdos. The maid Vivienne assigned to her must have used at  _least_  two pounds of beeswax pomade to get her hair to stay in the foot-high curly pompadour abomination on her head currently. She dared not look in a mirror to see what had been done to her face. It was almost certain that her  _vallaslin_ were hidden under layers of muck, as well as her freckles.

"Lady Inquisitor, you simply  _must_ come with me to my haberdasher before you leave Halamshiral, it's positively scandalous that you don't have any proper headwear," the woman next to her simpered. Lady Cossette de Farbes, if memory served, and great niece by marriage to Lady Mantillion.

"Oh, hats aren't really my thing, but thank you, Lady de Farbes." Fen leaned away from her just a hair. The woman on her other side, Comtesse Mathilde de Arbonne, clucked her tongue and said, "But you would look so  _charming_  with a little feathered fascinator like mine, Inquisitor. If I may."

The Comtesse pulled off her fascinator and placed it against the back of Fen'lath's head even as she tried to wave the woman off. Bodies crowded in as ladies and lords pushed their way closer for a view of Comtesse Mathilde's handiwork, making it impossible for her to squirm away from the fingers already jamming pins into her hair. "Really, Comtesse, it's  _not_  necessary-"

"Nonsense, I am happy to show you. Cossette, do you have another pin I could use?" The final pin raked into Fen's scalp, breaking the skin. "There, perfect! The white feathers are a marvelous contrast to the black of your hair, Lady Inquisitor."

"Thank you, Comtesse." Fen's teeth gritted as she bit the words out, patting at the spot where the pin had pierced her skin and glancing down at her fingers, seeing a tiny smear of blood. The other nobles stepped back twittering and nodding, feathers bobbing and masks flashing as they complimented the Comtesse, acting like she had just dressed a display mannequin instead of manhandling a living, breathing person.

Solas's hand was firm on her arm, "I beg your pardon, but the Inquisitor is needed elsewhere."

He steered her away with quick steps, sliding the wine goblet out of her hand and passing it to Dorian as they sailed by. Bull took up position on her other side, muttering, "If it's what I think it is, we have 20 minutes tops before there's too much in her system."

"What?" Fen whipped her head towards Bull, then wished she hadn't. The hallway leading to their rooms spun and wavered in her vision. She clutched at the arm of Bull's jacket and tried to speak around a tongue that felt like it had become wool, yet somehow stuck to the roof of her mouth, "I didn't drink anything but the wine Solas gave me."

"No." Solas spat out the word like it was the bitterest thing ever tasted. "Lady Cossette and Comtesse Mathilde chose a different route than the one we had been given reason to believe they would. Narrow-minded fools. As if killing you now would gain them anything."

"They're not looking for something from  _us_ ," Bull's voice was tight, disdainful. "They're trying to impress de Farbes's great-aunt. If you get a reward from her for playing the Game, you've basically won at being Orlesian."

"And doing this now, when Corypheus is still a threat, is when they consider it the best time to do this. They are truly are idiots of the highest caliber."

"Never said they were  _good_  at playing the Game."

Solas and Bull's voices were starting to echo, and Fen tripped as the heel of the unfamiliar shoes caught on the carpeting.

"Shit." Bull scooped her up and took off at a jog. "Forgot she's smaller than normal so it'll act faster. Think you can pull it out of her with magic, Solas?"

"I can, after dosing her with a restorative and antidote." The door to Fen's chamber slammed open so hard she heard the wood frame crack, "Set her down here and get that ridiculous hat off her. Mind the pins."

"I  _was_ Ben-Hasserath, I know what I'm doing."

"Then do it quickly." There was the clink of glasses and a strong smell of elfroot as Bull deposited her on the bed face-down, quickly pulling out the pins one by one. A loud, long sniffing noise, "Fuck, it's got Tears of the Dead mixed in. Add some of the stuff I gave you when we arrived."

More clinking, then Bull and Solas were rolling her over and propping her up. Solas held a glass of something that made her turn her head and gag at the smell. "I know,  _vhenan_ , but you must drink quickly."

Fen choked it down, and relaxed into Solas's hands as they cupped her head and smoothed the grimace from her forehead. "Hush, give me just a moment. You will be weak for a day or two, but you will live."

Soft, gentle magic washed over her and soothed her to sleep as the poison was purged from her.

* * *

Iron Bull departed the room to speak to Leliana. Empress Celene would be told about the attempt on Fen's life. It was likely the two ladies involved would be punished discretely due to their widespread political connections. Solas stalked down the hall to the door to the servant's quarters.

An unassuming brown-haired elf cracked the door open. She tilted her head, "Sir?"

"The hunt begins. De Farbes and de Arbonne."

"Sir." Her eyes glittered with gleeful malice. The door closed.


	27. The Game: Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Who are you to think you have the right to make that kind of decision. This is going too far."
> 
> Sequel to Chapter 26: The Game
> 
> Cossette de Farbes and Mathilde de Arbonne head into a year's exile as punishment for attempting to assassinate Fen'lath.

“Stupid knife-ear, she couldn’t just die like she was supposed to.” Cossette de Farbes sniffed, wafting herself with her handkerchief in an attempt to cool herself as the carriage jostled across the Orlesian heartlands.

 

“The oxman and the other knife-ear have to go, simple as that.” Mathilde de Arbonne grabbed at the seat as the wheels bumped over a large rut. “ _Merde!_ When we’re back at court from this exile, we will destroy that blighted rabbit after we’ve disposed of her companions.”

 

Cossette glared at the bars on the windows of the carriage. “I’m sure the Grand Duke would never have done this to us. He would have known what we were trying to do for him, to free him from her clutches. But what can we expect from the _rabbit-humper,_ Celene? To make that… knife-eared wench Marquise of the Dales!”

 

“Calm yourself, Cossette. It’s all part of The Game, and we will triumph in the end.” Mathilde rolled her eyes behind her mask. Cossette might have played her hand well enough to be part of Lady Mantillion’s family by marriage, but she had about as much of a head for The Game as a goose had for jousting otherwise. Maker knew why Cossette thought she would be able to pull off the assassination of the Inquisitor without Mathilde’s help. The idiot actually thought that she could simply poison the rabbit’s wine and carry merrily on. Without the oxman brute, Mathilde was certain the knife-ear who had given the Inquisitor the wine would have been accused of poisoning her, and Lady Mantillion would have been gifting the two of them with something to show her recognition of their skill.

 

Instead, she was trapped in a damned carriage in quiet exile to the far end of nowhere for a year as punishment for their attempt. Mathilde banged on the roof of the carriage, and it slowed to a halt. A guardsman stepped up to the door, and she declared, “Lady Cossette and I are parched from the heat. We demand wine immediately.”

 

He nodded, and called back in the line “You, rabbit! Wine for the Comtesse and Lady!”

* * *

 

The elf nodded and scurried into the chuckwagon. Brushing her brown hair out of her eyes, she pulled the small bottle of sleeping draught from her vest. A tiny burst of magic sparked forth when she cracked the seal. He would know that the prey would be waiting for him.

 

She poured an equal measure into both wine goblets, using the whole bottle, then re-corked it and hid it back in her clothes. Wine streamed into the glass, mixing with and hiding the draught, and the elf hurried to the carriage. “Comtesse, Lady, your wine.”

 

They snatched the goblets from her, not even bothering to look at her. Just as well. The elf went back to her place among the elven servants, and slowly worked her way to the back of the group, ducking into the foliage at the side of the road as the convoy rounded a bend. One more or one less elf was never noticed in Orlais.

* * *

 

The draught was quick. Cossette and Mathilde were asleep so fast they were still talking as they slipped into the dream he had carefully crafted. They didn’t notice that the carriage no longer jostled, nor did they notice the sounds of the soldiers guarding them fade to nothing. It was a wonder they noticed the carriage halt, so busy were they lamenting their exile.

 

“What is going on?” Cossette banged the ceiling of the carriage in impatience. “Driver? Why have we stopped again? We will never get this nonsense over with at this rate!”

 

Mathilde rattled the door with a decidedly unladylike kick, and gaped as it swung open. She peered out, head swinging to and fro as she took in the vast, empty fields surrounding them. No horses, no soldiers, no servants. Not even any birds or other vile sounds of nature mocking their exile from Halamshiral, just a great, dark city outlined in the distance. “What in the Maker’s name?”

 

Cossette shoved past her, stepping out into the road. Her voice pitched painfully high, “Where is everyone? And the wagons?”

 

Mathilde stepped out like the carriage had stopped in a pigsty instead of a road, lifting her skirts and trying to float above the beaten dirt. A figure was walking towards them through the fields. She shaded her eyes, and called, “You there! I am Comtesse Mathilde de Arbonne! I demand to know where the soldiers and servants accompanying us have gone, immediately!”

 

The figure moved closer, solidifying into a man wearing odd bronze and silver armor with a wolf pelt over one shoulder, and a hood hiding the upper half of his face. Cossette flicked her handkerchief at him, “Who are you? Why are we all alone here?”

 

He smiled. It was unnerving, too wide, baring his teeth at them. “I will phrase this simply enough for you to grasp my meaning. I believe the Empress was far too kind to you. Exile for a year is nothing compared to what the Inquisitor would have done.”

 

“Pfaugh, one more dead rabbit is nothing,” Cossette sniffed, flicking her handkerchief at him again. “Everyone knows that thing in her hand is a mage’s trick, and she’s being propped up as a figurehead while the Right and Left Hand do all the real work. Why they couldn’t find a proper _human_ of good breeding to use is anyone’s guess.”

 

“You truly have no idea what you would have done to the world had you succeeded. For that, for attempting to murder our only hope, and my _vhenan_ ,” his head came up, eyes sparking in the depths of the hood, “Your lives are forfeit.”

 

"Who are you to think you have the right to make that kind of decision? This is going too far, _knife-ear_ . Yes, I recognize your voice. The Inquisitor’s ‘manservant’." Mathilde sneered, raking her eyes over him, “You may think you have some power, since she’s letting the _help_ rut her, but you are nothing! The Empress will hear of this!”

 

The man chuckled, a soft, dangerous noise. “It is quite hilarious that you think so. Rest assured, she will not.”

 

Black smoke started coiling around him, and his voice echoed around Cossette and Mathilde like thunder. “Run.”

 

An enormous black wolf with six red eyes snarled at them. Both women screamed and ran as it lunged forward.

* * *

 

_Imperial Majesty,_

 

_It is my duty to inform you of the deaths of Comtesse Mathilde de Arbonne and Lady Cossette de Farbes. The circumstances are still under investigation, as they are unusual. According to the guards I had posted with the carriage, the Comtesse and Lady both fell asleep after having some wine to cool off in the heat of the day. About ten minutes later, the guards say both ladies screamed as though all the demons of the Void themselves were chasing them. When the carriage doors were unlocked, both women were dead, with terrible, contorted looks on their faces. We had several of the elven servants drink the dregs from their goblets, and all they did was fall asleep for a time. Testing on one of the human guards also made him fall asleep, so while we had suspected human-specific poison at first, it does not appear they were poisoned. We will continue to the chateu to prepare the bodies for their last rites and transport back to their families, but we wish to know what your Imperial Majesty’s orders are regarding our futher investigation._

 

_With great respect,_

 

_Chevalier Henri de Ontier_


	28. Moment of Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Being in charge, or the leader can be a lot. Where does your Hawke/Inquisitor/Warden go when it gets too much? Write a piece where it's just too much and they need to go to their place. 
> 
> Marian Hawke needs a break from Uncle Gamlen and Leandra's bickering.

Gamlen and Leandra were fighting. _Again_ . Uncle Gamlen did have a point, Leandra could contribute by getting a job taking in laundry or some such thing, but they had this fight every other day and it was getting old fast. Feeling a pounding headache coming on, Hawke knew she had to get away from the shouting, and the overwhelming sense of everything resting on her shoulders. Marian snagged her halberd and whistled for Valor while tucking a few precious silvers into the pouch at her waist. _Only fifteen more sovereigns, and we can get on this bloody blighted expedition._

 

Somehow, she’d become the unofficial-official ringleader of their ragtag band, and the constant harping between Isabela and Aveline, and both Anders and Carver being antagonistic with just about everyone was starting to wear on her nerves. Silently grabbing her pack, Marian slid out the door, Gamlen and Leandra too busy rehashing their same argument to notice. The smell of rotting garbage, human waste, and desperation made her wrinkle her nose, and she dropped her head low to avoid drawing too much attention. The smell of rotting garbage gave way to the smell of rotting fish and bitter brine as Marian drew closer to the docks, and she paid for a ferry to the Wounded Coast, thankfully able to bypass the Gallows since she was a known resident of Kirkwall now.

 

As the ferry drew further from Kirkwall, Marian breathed in the clean, salty air and ruffled her hair to let the breeze flow through the unruly midnight tumble. The tightness in her chest and ache in her head from living in the center of a city designed to support blood magic and thin the Veil melted away as the city fell behind her. The only reason she could tolerate it was because it also stifled the Templars’ abilities to sense mages, a fact which the Chantry and Order had taken great pains to keep under wraps. So long as she stuck to using her halberd if she had to fight, she was safe from the Gallows. Marian shuddered, a gull shrieking overhead.

 

As soon as her boots touched the Coast dock, she and Valor took off at a trot, the thought of the Kirkwall Circle spurring her onward.  The game path they followed was barely there, and most in Kirkwall wouldn’t see it if they fell into it and rolled along for a mile. Finally breaking through the brambles and thick bushes, there was the little inlet. Athenril’s smugglers abandoned it a few months after Marian started working for the elf. Supposedly, they had been using it for drops long enough that it was time to shift to another one of the dozens of inlets and little coves to keep Templars and city guards off their back and off the trail of their operation.

 

Now, it was her sanctuary when everything became too much to bear. Marian was fairly certain Isabela knew of it, Varric almost certainly did and kept the Rivaini pirate from just turning up whenever she wished. Anders, Merrill, and Aveline didn’t even know it existed. Carver pretended the year of smuggling, and anything associated with it, never happened unless it meant gold in their purse or bread on the table. And Fenris… who knew with Fenris?

 

He was courteous, went on the jobs he was asked along for, contributed all of his earnings but the coin needed for one meal a day to the pot for the expedition, and, thank the Maker, no longer glared at her like she was going to start dancing naked in the streets while doing blood magic at any moment. Fenris also had a habit of saving her from taking many a trip down the staircases of Kirkwall face-first, so there was that. So many bloody blighted _stairs_ , and her boots were so worn they couldn’t grip the slick marble in Hightown, nor were they much use on the stairs rubbed smooth from decades of feet in Lowtown. That’s what she told herself, anyway. Marian didn’t want to admit that she apparently couldn’t ‘do’ stairs if her life depended on it.

 

Picking her way down to the boulders lining one edge of the inlet, Marian stripped off her boots and stockings, then pulled off her cheap padded leather armor and leggings. Her undershirt, one of Bethany’s that she hadn’t been able to set aside because of her sister’s embroidery along the collar and sleeves, was removed with extra care and folded just so before being placed delicately on top of her other belongings, stacked on a boulder. Halberd stabbed into the sand for easy access just in case, she charged into the waves in her smalls and breastband, shrieking at the chill as it drove the air from her lungs.

 

It felt wonderful. Her Fereldan blood was meant for bitterly cold, harsh winters and short, dry summers, not the muggy heat of the Marches. The briny waves stripped the sweat from her hide and the weight of leadership from her shoulders, and Marian could laugh as Valor barked happily and tried to herd the seagulls wheeling lazily overhead from the sandy shore. She splashed her way through the surf to the real treasure of the inlet, a little pool of fresh water that trickled into the surf. The water wasn’t as chilly as the ocean, washing away the salt and refreshing her. Clambering out, she squeezed the water from her hair. Marian dug through her pack momentarily to pull out a hairpin and piled it up, loose curls fluttering dry in the sea breeze as she pulled on Bethany’s shirt. Leandra had begrudgingly let out the shoulders, leaving it too short on the arms and loose around the chest, but it was enough for relaxing on a secluded beach, away from all the daily worries.

 

Marian laid out on one of the flatter boulders in the dappled shade of a tree. The rumble of surf and warm rock lulled her into a half-sleep, Valor resting his square head on her stomach with a totally unnecessary sigh of exhaustion. His deep, rumbling growl snapped her out of her drowse and wide awake, rolling out from under the mabari, off the boulder, and grabbing her halberd from the sand. Valor charged into the bushes, growl turning into a happy bark, herding a very sheepish looking Fenris onto the beach.

 

“I--er--well--that is, good afternoon, Hawke.” It was entertaining watching him stand there, greatsword strapped to his back, arms crossed, hunched and glowering everywhere but at her while Valor yipped and danced around him like the excited puppy the mabari still believed himself to be.

 

Leaning on her halberd and raising an eyebrow, Marian tried to keep a straight face, “Spying on me, are you?”

 

“I saw you taking the ferry all alone and followed you. An attractive woman all alone, even one as capable as you are, would be quite the prize for slavers.” A flash of olive green peeked between his silver bangs before flicking away again, “Maker’s sake, woman, put on some pants.”

 

“You mean you don’t think I’ll be starting the next fashion craze? Old, let-out shirts and bare legs aren’t going to be sweeping across the Marches next season?"

 

Fenris snorted.

 

“Isabela would be quite put out, you know.”

 

He rolled his head to give her a half-hearted glare, gaze sweeping down her tawny bare legs before turning his back to her, “Far be it from me to comment on the pirate wench and her taste in fashion.”

 

“It’s not really my style either.” Marian plunked on the boulders and quickly pulled on stockings, leggings, boots and armor. She nudged the prickly elf with a good natured elbow and started back along the game path. “So, you really followed me all the way out here _just_ on the off-chance slavers were wandering _this_ exact stretch of beach?”

 

“Varric has leads on more work for us, as well.” There was something in the tone of his voice, she knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

 

“Fenris, I hope one day you’ll trust that I refuse to work with demons and I don’t condone blood magic.” The silence confirmed her hunch. “The only way I can think of to get you to believe me, though, is to keep working with you and letting my actions speak for me.”

 

Silence hung over them. When the ferry dock drew into sight, Fenris’s gauntleted hand closed gently around Marian’s elbow. “Hawke… I apologize. You haven’t given me reason to distrust you thus far. And much as I relish killing slavers, I would not want them to lay a single finger on you first.”

 

Marian just smiled at Fenris, laying a friendly hand over his, giving it a squeeze. “Thank you, Fenris. Truly.”


	29. Granting Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Water, grey, surprise, knowledge shared
> 
> Fen'lath has questions about oculara, and what they really meant for the Tranquil used to make them.

The Forbidden Oasis was pretty, if you were in the oasis proper and not up on the sandy, wind-blown cliffs. Fen’lath sat on one of the sun-baked red sandstone boulders on the edge of the waters, wet hair spread over her back to dry. The end of every day’s planned activities in the Oasis was marked by their group splashing around in the water while wearing their smalls, washing off blood, sweat, and the powdery red grit that seemed to get into nooks and crannies that sand was never meant to see on a human, Qunari, or elven body.

 

Bull was shamelessly flirting with Dorian as he soaped up, flexing and offering to help scrub his  back. Dorian’s blush blended into the tan that darkened his complexion, and he sloshed away from Bull while muttering. Fen didn’t catch all of it, but ‘lummox’, ‘horned brute’, and ‘ _kaffas_ ’ featured heavily in what she did hear.

 

Even as densely muscled as he was, Solas floated easily on the oasis waters, eyes closed in a meditative state. He bobbed in the eddies caused by Dorian and Bull’s activity, relaxed. Fen had worried that he would burn in the searing desert sun, but so far, he had only freckled. She herself had darkened, and her freckles had spread across her face and shoulders.

 

In her hands, she held one of the shards that would supposedly work to unlock the temple hidden somewhere in the oasis. She ran her fingers over the rough grey surface, shivering even in the heat when they accidentally bumped over the glowing blue-marked skull on it. Her teeth ached as it hummed in response, and Fen set it aside. The urge to throw it as hard as she could was strong, but the cost of finding the shards was too high to just toss them aside. _Those poor Tranquil…_

A sudden thought occurred to her. Horror stole her breath, gripping her tight. Solas--Solas might have answers. She jumped off the rock and sloshed towards the floating elf. “Solas!”

 

The distress in her voice surprised him, and he floundered in the water for a moment before gaining his footing and raising his hands, expecting to see that they were under attack. Seeing only Fen, he raised an eyebrow, “Fen’lath? What is wrong?”

 

“The oculara! The Tranquil!” She gripped his arms, large eyes even wider with distress. “Does making an ocularum trap the Tranquil’s spirit in it? We have to free them from the oculara! We can’t just leave them trapped in there!”

 

Solas’s mouth dropped open, and worked for a moment. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his expression went stormy. “I am not sure, but we will find out. Let us get dried off and properly dressed, and then we will speak to Dorian and the Lady Seeker.”

 

“Dorian I get, but why Cassandra?” Solas took her hand to help her up onto the boulder to fetch the shard, then slogged through the water next to her towards their camp. They both grabbed undershirts and leggings that had been left to dry in low-hanging tree branches. Solas spoke, each word coming out slowly, as if picked with careful precision. “It may be the demon is trapped in the ocularum in addition to the Tranquil’s spirit, or instead of the Tranquil. In either case, having the Lady Seeker along would be a good idea, should destroying an ocularum release a demon trapped within it. Definitely not Bull. He’d just as soon smash it and be done with it.”

 

Fen gave a slow nod. Oculara were often not close to rifts that would help against demons, so Cassandra’s abilities as a Seeker made logical sense. “Maybe Cole, too?”

 

“I could help.” Fen shrieked and dropped her clean clothes, leaping at Solas. He dropped his clean clothes to catch her, then chuckled and said, “Cole, in the future, you should approach from the front, and not just appear.”

 

“I would _very_ much appreciate it.” Fen picked up Solas’s tunic and leggings, shaking the sand off and handing them to him. Her own leggings and tunic had more sand on them, and she sighed. She’d just get a clean set in camp and bribe the damned requisitions officer to wash everything again. The spirit boy nodded, “From the front, friend not foe.”

 

“Exactly,” Fen peered at the sun, which was getting lower in the sky than she would like for setting out for the closest of the oculara. “We may need to plan tonight and go to the ocularum tomorrow.”

 

Solas squinted at the horizon, judging the time, and nodded. “I agree. Although-Cole?”

  
“Yes?”

 

“Would you be able to visit the ocularum above the camp to see if the Tranquil’s spirit is trapped within and return before sunset without any trouble?”

 

“A shadow shifting over silent sands, a whisper in the wind. I can.”

 

“Thank you, Cole.” Solas tilted his head up towards the Inquisition camp. “Shall we, Fen’lath?”

* * *

 

In the early morning light, other than being a strangely lit skull, the ocularum didn’t look like it contained the tortured spirit of a Tranquil.

 

Fen could hear Cole’s words from the night before. He’d been frantic, not even noticing when she took his hat off so she could hug him and calm him down.

 

_“Trapped, tormented, terrified. It’s too small! The heat, burning, baking, blistering everything. Why does it feel like this? Where am I? I saw people, could they hear me calling for help? Won’t someone help?”_

 

Dorian and Solas both walked around the ocularum, murmuring to each other. If anyone could figure out how to free the spirit trapped inside, it would be the necromancer and the closest thing she had to an expert on spirits and the Fade. Cassandra glowered at the Venatori relic, her Nevarran accent making her words sound even more clipped in anger, “Once Solas and Dorian have figured out how to destroy it and release the Tranquil trapped within to the Maker’s side, we are going to send teams to the oculara we have mapped and destroy them utterly.”

 

“Not yet, Cassandra.” Fen forced herself not to shrink back when the Seeker’s fury turned to her.

 

“What are you saying, Herald? You would allow these- _things_ -to continue to exist?!”

 

“We must know if we’ve found all of the shards the Venatori were searching for with each ocularum, first. If they are able to get ahold of even one…” Fen trailed off, watching the play of emotions across Cassandra’s face.

 

“You… may have a point. We do not know what is hidden in the temple here, and if the Venatori are after it, it may be something dangerous, or something valuable. Once we have located and marked the locations of each ocularum’s shards, though?”

 

“Then we destroy the ocularum and free the spirit trapped within. I will not knowingly leave any other spirits languishing while I have a say in it.” Fen set her jaw. Solas had beckoned Cole over, and he was… laying his cheek on the ocularum.

 

“Seeker,” Solas approached them, staff planting in the sands as he drew himself to full height. “We believe we know how to free the spirit trapped inside to allow her to cross over as she should have when her body died.”

 

_The Tranquil had been a woman._

 

“Do you need my help?” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed on the skull.

 

“Yes. You will need to call down an Annulment on the skull and shatter it with your blade at the same time. Dorian will siphon the spirit from the shattered skull to direct it, and I will be twisting the Veil just enough to allow it to pass through. The spirit has assured Cole that we have gathered all of the shards she could see.”

  
“Are you _sure_ this will work, Solas?” A skeptical brow crept up the Seeker’s forehead.

 

“Certainty is never assured, but Dorian and I believe this has the best chance of breaking the magic that binds her to the ocularum and letting her rest in peace.” Solas raised his chin, gripping his staff in both hands and leaning into it.

 

Cassandra nodded, and gestured with her shield, “All of you stand behind me. If you are caught in the Annulment, it will be very painful. I have no wish to cause any of you injury.”

“Of course not, we’re not Varric!” Dorian piped up cheerfully.

 

“ _Ugh_.”

 

The three mages and Cole stood behind Cassandra, watching as she took a deep breath, focusing inward. Something _pulled_ in the air around them, and then with a battlecry, the Annulment slammed down onto the ocularum as her sword shattered the skull. Fen stumbled back. It was like standing next standing next to a silent thunderclap, and she could only imagine what being the focus of one was like. Dorian and Solas ignored it somehow, a purple haze twisting from Dorian’s fingers and a green vortex appearing in front of Solas. The wisp of purple rushed into the vortex, there was a popping sensation as the vortex collapsed in on itself, and all fell still.

 

Cole touched the shattered fragments of bone, then looked up with a wide, happy smile. “You did it, she’s free now!”

 

Fen let out a sigh of relief. Solas moved next to her, setting a hand on her shoulder. “We will free all of them, Fen’lath. You have my word.”


	30. What Lurks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: One of the companions told a story around the campfire that put a disturbing image in your protag's head. Now they can't stop thinking about it.
> 
> Marian regrets asking what to expect in the Deep Roads.

Marian rolled onto her side, turning her back to the fire. It warmed her back, and the scent of burning wood mostly covered the odor of stale dust and sweat. Sleep was eluding her. Fenris was balled up tight on his sleeping mat, arms and legs tucked close, one hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, even in sleep. The tension in his back and across his shoulders hadn’t relaxed out, either. Every few minutes or so, he would flinch or twitch like he had been struck. Marian badly wanted to wake him to help him if he was having nightmares. If he was anything like Carver, though, he would wake swinging, and she didn’t want to add hurting her to the burdens he bore.

 

Varric was splayed out, arms cast wide. Bianca was within reach, of course. His broken nose made him snore. Compared to the nightly chorus she was used to sleeping through that consisted of Gamlen, Carver, and Valor, he was a touch above a whisper in volume. He was not the cause of her sleeplessness. No, that lay solely on Anders.

 

It wasn’t truly fair to lay it all on him. She should not have asked what to expect further into the Deep Roads, or more accurately,  _ pushed _ him when he was reluctant to speak of it. She was glad their fire was separate from the main body of the expedition; it was likely everyone but Bartrand would have quit on the spot and run back to Kirkwall as fast as their legs could carry them. 

 

The other mage lay with his head pillowed on his coat, feathered caplet spread out so as not to crush any of the feathers. His brow was pinched, and random expressions crossed his face. Once, while she had been watching, he had mumbled out the word that was still rattling through her brain and keeping her staring into the dark beyond the campfires.  _ Broodmother. _

 

Marian didn’t want to believe such things existed. She had seen darkspawn with her own two eyes, lost Bethany to an ogre. She wanted to believe that every one she killed was irreplaceable, a member of a finite army that had been knocked out of the count. Finding out that there were hideous monsters who actually  _ birthed more _ \--

 

She had vomited when Anders had told her. Pushed too far, he had grabbed her arms and snarled at her.

 

_ “You want to know what’s in the Deep Roads, Hawke? Death, and darkspawn. Things you should never see. Bloody blighted  _ Broodmothers _. Do you know what those are? Hideous creatures, pale and slack from not being able to move, but so tall they can reach the roof of a cavern. The folds of their bodies are covered with too many breasts, and they stink of dried blood, the Blight, rotting flesh, and birth fluid. Do you know why they smell like that? They give birth to darkspawn, Hawke. Give. Birth. And it’s not like there’s just one. I was with Gwyneth Surana at Vigil’s Keep and Amaranthine. I was there in the lower reaches of Kal’Hirol when she killed three broodmothers in one cavern. Three!” _

 

Marian felt her stomach lurch again, and sat up, putting her head between her knees. She took deep breaths, hoping she’d be able to keep down the little bit of tea and travel bread Anders had managed to coax into her after as an apology for making her vomit up the rather delicious stew Bodhan Feddic had put together for their dinner. Varric wasn’t awake to hold her hair back or rub between her shoulderblades this time. 

 

“Hawke?” Fenris’s deep voice was even rougher with sleep. 

 

“I’m fine, Fenris, go back to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow.”

 

“You are still unsettled by the abomination’s outburst earlier.”

 

“Aren’t you?” 

 

“I am, but dwelling on it will only cost me needed sleep, as it is costing you.”

 

“Well, pardon the  _ hell  _ out of me for being upset by the knowledge that there are creatures out there birthing more darkspawn like the one that killed my little sister. I’ll just dwell on it somewhere else, if it bothers you so much.” 

 

Marian stood, needing to move or do something to keep her temper down. Even with the Veil being thicker in the Deep Roads, the demons still pressed close. Their whispers were faint, but sibilant over the crackle of the fire. 

 

_ “My magic will serve that which is best in me, not that which is most base.” _

 

Her father’s mantra ran through her head over and over. She did the exercises he taught her to exhaust her temper. Call up fire, pass the flames from hand to hand, flicker it across the fingertips like a gambler rolls a coin across their knuckles, split the flame in two then make it one again, extinguish the flames, and repeat. 

 

Marian turned back to the camp fire. Fenris’s eyes glowed faintly as he watched her. Every so often, the flicker of the flames in her hands caught in his eyes, reflecting the light like a cat’s. It was fascinating to watch. When the flames extinguished a final time, he rumbled out, “Better, after that little display?”

 

“Much, thank you. You can still take your cut of whatever we make from this and leave Kirkwall when we get back if being around a mage that frets over darkspawn puts your dander up,” she hissed out, trying not to wake the others as she flopped back down on her bedroll.

 

“I never said any such thing.  _ Do not _ put words in my mouth.”

 

“Then what are you trying to say, Fenris?” 

 

“I am saying that I am concerned that you will not be well-rested tomorrow, and if we do encounter darkspawn, even with the abomination’s warning us beforehand, you will not be in the best state to fight. If you are not, I will do my best to protect you, but I do not want the burden of telling your mother I was unable to save her only surviving daughter from yet another darkspawn if I fail in that.”

 

“You--!”

 

“No, let me finish,” Fenris growled, “Aside from the fact that your brother would attempt to take his frustrations out on me, I do not want you to die, Hawke. You have my back when you have no logical reason to help a runaway slave. You had the dwarf keep track of how much of my coin went into the pot for this because for some reason, you want to ensure I have a share of whatever is earned from this beyond the pay Varric guaranteed for me. I believe I can trust you, and I know you rush head-first into things without regard for your safety. I will not pay back your trust in me by letting you get killed on this expedition.”

 

He stretched out, rolling his shoulders with a crackle, then balling up again. Marian thought he had gone back to sleep, until he uncurled enough to roll over and glare at her, “My hands are bloody enough. I would not have your blood on them because I could not keep you safe. Go to sleep, please.”  

 

“Alright.”  _ Well, that was decidedly unexpected.  _ Marian watched Fenris watching her and listened to the fire crackle. She never did figure out which one of them fell asleep first.


	31. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Leliana and Cassandra actually managed to find their first or second choice for Inquisitor (Hawke or Warden) Write out the encounter. 
> 
> Leliana and Cassandra infiltrate a small estate in Starkhaven, where it is rumored the Champion of Kirkwall is hiding.

Cassandra caught the great sword that swung out of the doorway on her shield, letting out a surprised shout. Leliana raised her bow, then lowered it when she recognized the snarling, glowing elf who was battering the Seeker back down the moonlit hallway of the small, but well-appointed holding on the outskirts of Starkhaven. Though Cassandra was fully armored, and the elf just in a simple tunic and leggings, he seemed to flit around the Seeker, and his fury lent him extra strength.

 

Leliana peered past him into the darkened hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman they had scoured all of Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches to find. To think the Champion of Kirkwall and her elven lover were so close that whole time! It had taken them long enough to track down the point where their informants were being led astray, and make arrangements to fix the problem. Zevran never could resist a pair of pretty eyes and a nice bottom, if Leliana sent their old password from the Blight along with the owner of said physical assets.

 

“Messere Fenris, please! We just want to speak to the Champion! You must remember me, Divine Justinia sent me to investigate the issues in the Gallows,” she yelled over the crash of metal on metal. The Sister sprang out of the way as Cassandra dodged another swing of the sword.

 

“For all the good it did!” After the thundering crash of his great sword on Cassandra’s shield, in the silence before the next slash made contact, Leliana heard the shriek of a terrified infant that quickly fell silent, and she felt her eyes widen in shock. _Oh._

 

The elf’s eyes filled with desperation, and he snarled, “ _Get out of my home, and leave us be! Now!_ ”

 

“Not until we speak to the Champion! Don’t make me hurt you, elf!” Cassandra braced herself against his attack, then bashed him with her shield. Before Leliana could stop the Seeker, she plunged her sword into his unarmored shoulder. The elf groaned, and the sword dropped to the ground, too heavy for the hand of the uninjured arm to hold. From one of the shadowed doorways further down the hall, a woman screamed, “ _Fenris!_ ”

 

“Marian, _NO!_ ” Leliana caught just a glimpse of her, a shadow fluttering in a nightgown, before a Telekinetic Blast hit both her and Cassandra and sent them flying backwards. The baby was screaming again, loud, terrified wails that echoed down the hall even as the Champion cried out, “Carver, come help him!”

 

Seeker and Sister landed in a heap, Leliana still had her bow, but Cassandra’s shield and sword had been torn from her grip by the Blast. She was feeling around for them when they were both pulled forward, sliding over the hardwood floors, the edges of Cassandra’s armor tearing deep grooves into the previously smooth wood.

 

“You come into _my home_ in the middle of the night,” the Champion rasped out as the Pull of the Abyss slid them into a patch of moonlight, “And attack _my husband!_ ”

 

A Gravitic Ring slammed down around them, forcing Leliana and the Seeker flat on the floor, their lips peeling back from their teeth from the strength of the magic pulling down on them. Leliana choked out past the grip of the Ring, “We must--speak--with you--Champion. At--the request--of--Divine--Just--”

 

“I don’t give a _damn_ that the Divine sent you, Sister Nightingale! You let that thrice-Blighted Grand Cleric Elthina stay in Kirkwall and not to a Maker-fucked thing about Meredith Stannard, instead of having the Divine replace her! You turned a _blind fucking eye_ to that Knight-Commander bitch in the first place! Whatever you want, you can shove it up the Divine’s _holy arse and get the_ _fuck out of my house!_ ” The Fist of the Maker that smashed into them drove the breath from Leliana and made black spots dance in her vision.

 

Next to her, she felt the Seeker gathering herself. The Sister closed her eyes, and felt rather than saw the pillar of light as Cassandra called the Wrath of Heaven down. The Champion cried out, the elf and another man both called out in unison, “Marian!”

 

The child was still wailing. Still, Leliana heard Cassandra stand and brush herself off, and stomp forward. She inhaled to start a tirade, then exhaled out, “Oh, Maker…”

 

Leliana opened her eyes and sat up. She couldn’t see anything around the pillar of light that still lit the hall with an eerie, flickering blue light. The Sister moved to stand next to the Seeker, and gasped. The Dalish elf mentioned in ‘The Tale of the Champion’ looked up at them with wide, frightened eyes as she knelt next to Marian Hawke, who was laid out on the floor, stunned. The child in the elf’s arms was reaching to the Champion, some of her screams sounded like ‘Mama’. Her little fingers and arm had minute threads of _lyrium_ on them, glittering in the light of the pillar. Leliana’s gaze flicked to the baby’s little chin, then to Fenris, who was leaning against the wall, a poultice pressed to his injured shoulder, and a man that bore a strong resemblance to the Champion glaring at them from his side, winding a bandage around to hold the poultice in place. The threads on the baby’s arm and chin matched his markings. _The Champion and the elf had a child._

 

“The child must be given to the Chantry.” The times Leliana wanted to smack Cassandra for speaking before thinking were few and far between, but now was definitely one of those times. The Dalish elf, Merrill, shot up and clutched the little girl to her chest.

 

Four voices, three angry, one soft, said “No!” at the same time.

 

“Leliana!” Cassandra rounded on her. “You know what the Chant says!”

 

“Yes, I do, Cassandra, and there is nothing in the Chant that says a mage must give their child to the Chantry. That was a rule put in place with the Circles, and the Circles are no more. The Champion is right, I made a mistake when I left Grand Cleric Elthina in Kirkwall, and Knight-Commander Meredith in charge.”

 

“So what are you saying, Leliana?” The Seeker ran her fingers through her hair, getting tangled in her braid, then tugging them free.

 

“'Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him.' The Champion has served the Chantry more with her actions than we should ever ask one person to. We are returning to the Temple, and we will find another to lead the Inquisition.”

 

Leliana knelt next to Fenris, “I ask for your forgiveness, Messere Fenris, and the Champion’s, whenever you are ready or willing to give it. My people will be dedicated to keeping your location safe, and protecting you and your family from further harm.”

 

He simply glared at her through silver bangs. Sister Nightingale stood as the pillar of light finally faded, and she felt around as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The purse of sovereigns was pressed into Merrill’s free hand. “Get a healer and whatever supplies you need. If you have need of more, just send word to Sister Nightingale in Val Royeax.”

 

She led Cassandra out of the holding, using her picks to re-lock the door behind them. Cassandra shook her head as she looked back at the house, “Are you sure we’re doing the right thing, Leliana? That child could grow up to be dangerous.”

 

“It was the right thing. We kept the peace, and it was just.”

 

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…”

 

“Exactly.”

  
  



	32. In Your Heart Shall Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion Challenge Prompt: Companion POV of the events during In Your Heart Shall Burn
> 
> What Solas makes of the events of In Your Heart Shall Burn

“Everyone to the gates!” 

 

Fen’lath ran, sliding down the hill before Solas could react. The Blight magic radiating off the dragon circling overhead was setting his teeth on edge, a pulsing ache starting behind one eye. The Iron Bull and Dorian were behind him, swearing up a storm in Qunlat and Tevene, respectively. Like Fen, he also eschewed following the path, and slid down the hill, the sturdy leather of his wraps protecting his feet from the rocks and lingering snow.

 

Sharp ears picked up Commander Cullen shouting to the soldiers still outside the gates to move, and the large doors slammed closed, bar falling across. Fen glanced up at the dragon flying overhead, and shot Cullen a look that very clearly said, “Really?”

 

He covered a smile with his hand, disguising a snorting laugh as a cough. Cullen roared so all the soldiers and any remaining civilians could hear, “We need everyone back to the Chantry, it’s the only building that might hold against that beast. At this point, just make them  _ work  _ for it.”

 

Fen nodded, and squared her shoulders.  _ Small shoulders on which rested the weight of the world. _ Solas shook his head. Now he sounded like the spirit, Cole. It was an odd moment to notice a little lock of hair had pulled free of her braids and was plastered to her neck by sweat, a delicate curl of obsidian against the stretch of muscle leading from the base of her skull into her armor. 

 

“The villagers will need help if they are to survive this.” Dorian pointed to small clusters of people still running from various buildings to the Chantry. 

 

They would need to comb the remaining buildings to ensure they were clear. It was a flurry of lighting, fire, screaming, The Iron Bull’s axe whistling through the air, and Red Templars, but all remaining in Haven who yet drew breath were saved. They ran to the Chantry, the last stragglers as the dragon screamed overhead. 

 

He stayed near the door, breathing and concentrating on dampening the pulsing ache the Blighted creature was exacerbating. The spirit was speaking, as well as the Commander and the Chancellor that would have executed Fen’lath if given the chance. How he had wanted to crush the man for suggesting they execute the only one who could possibly reverse what had been done with his orb! Even  _ he _ didn’t understand what that magister had done before supposedly dying in the explosion, and had only managed to piece enough together to close the Breach through studying the Mark as it slept in Fen’s palm.

 

“He wants to kill you.” 

 

Cole’s voice broke through his musings. Of course Corypheus would want to kill Fen, try to steal her power. He felt the corners of his mouth draw down, his mouth pinch in disapproval as she blithely offered herself as a sacrificial halla. She was the most real shadow among these wisps, throwing herself on the pyre for them.

 

The Tevinter made a noise in his throat. Whatever had happened at Redcliffe, he and Fen got on like a house on fire, with the elder mage treating her like a beloved younger sister. The Ben-Hassrath just observed, like he always did. There was a tightening around his eye. So, he was affected. The Qunari also had a fondness for the irritatingly delightful elven woman, more than the good-natured facade he put on for all and sundry. Solas’s hand tightened around his staff. He could feel the rigidity of his steps as he exited to follow the soldiers towards the final trebuchet. 

 

“If we are to have a chance, if  _ you _ are to have a chance, let that thing hear you.” 

 

“We need to be noticed. Happens to be a specialty of mine!” Dorian quipped as he whipped a volley of fireballs at the Red Templars charging towards them. The Iron Bull’s axe was brutally effective, cleaving one from collarbone to hip before Bull jerked it free and charged forward again, barrier springing from Fen’s fingertips to protect him before she Fade-Stepped. The clouding mist re-formed at an angle that allowed her to spin her staff and slam it down, chaining lightning through three Templars and stopping them in their tracks for Solas himself to freeze and a swing of Bull’s axe to shatter. 

 

In a dance of fire, ice, lightning, and bellowing Qunari, they moved to the trebuchet, then bought time for Bull to winch it into position as the Red Templars swarmed it. Something in the Mark was singing, calling to them, a high note that made Solas want to clap his hands over his ears while grabbing Fen around the waist and running. 

 

“It’s in place, Boss!” Bull jumped off the trebuchet, a half-hearted swing smashing the last attacking Templar to the ground with gore-splattering finality.

 

The dragon wheeled through the air overhead with another screech. Fen waved at Dorian and Bull, “Move, now!”

 

Bull snorted like his namesake, “Like hell I’m leaving you alone to face that!”

 

Solas opened his mouth to protest as well, and she turned on them, fire in her eyes as they met his, “The Elder One wants me? He can come and face me. But please, don’t make me watch you die for me again.”

 

Her voice broke on the last. Redcliffe, the shattered future still haunted her. She grabbed his arm, shoved something into Solas’s hand. Her voice shook with fear and determination. “If you must, you know the most about the rifts. Lead for me.”

 

They all looked up at the roar, and ran as the dragon spat red-lyrium laced flames. He shoved whatever Fen had given him in his pocket. Bull grabbed Dorian when he stumbled on his way down the stairs in the Chantry, following the path left by the others. The cold air burned Solas’s lungs, sending him into a state of trance-like clarity as the rush of his second wind kicked in. 

 

Only an hour ago, he had been dancing with Fen’lath, both of them a bit flushed with wine and the rigors of the waltz she had coaxed him into. She had been joking about counting the freckles he had still from the Forbidden Oasis, gently tapping the air over them as she laughed and counted. He had been counting hers in return, playfully pushing her hand away to try to ‘beat’ her at the game. She would survive this, because she had to. Solas started marking spots along the path in the Fade. A quick glance with Fade-sight, marking it, then resuming the hurried pace to catch up with the bulk of the Inquisition. They heard the rumble of the avalanche start just as they broke the tree line, sighting the last straggling Haven survivors. 

They could see the dragon lift off as the rush of ice, snow, and scree roared down the Frostbacks. Dorian made a strangled noise. “She’s still down there.”

 

“She will survive, I am sure of it. We must help get everyone to a safe spot, and she will find us. She  _ will _ find us, Dorian.” Solas strode forward, marking other spots as they led the people further up. To speed things along, Solas picked up a small elven girl, the daughter of one of the maids, and carried her on his hip. A gentle nudge here and there steered the Seeker and Commander in the direction of  _ Tarasyl'an Te'las _ , the only unoccupied place for miles that would have room for all of them, and have places where he could study and cultivate his power. He did not let himself wonder if he would have to do it as the leader of the Inquisition. Fen’lath would survive, and she would find her way to them.

 

They found the right spot sheltered from the wind on the side of the mountain. Solas gave the child over to her mother, who essentially sank down against one of the wagons and fell asleep holding the girl immediately after being wrapped in a blanket. He walked to the edge of the camp, looking towards Haven. Fen’lath must be alive. Solas reached into his pocket to see what Fen had given him. The little halla amulet given to her by the elderly elf at Redcliffe rested in his palm.

 

The antlers of the amulet bit into the meat of his thumb as his hand clenched around it. More the fool he, calling her a sacrificial halla. Fen’lath was no halla, no creature to be led and herded obliviously from one place to another. Nor was she the wolf cub he had called her in his mind the day she had been given the amulet. The Dalish woman was definitely a wolf grown.

 

Solas sat down, and slipped into meditation, slipping to the furthest of his Fade markers with ease. He would wait, and when he sighted the Dalish wolf, he would lead her back to her pack.

 


	33. A Friend in Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion Challenge Prompt: Free form- anything of your choosing, as long as it's from the pov of the companion.
> 
> Returning to Skyhold after the infamous waterfall scene is awkward. Dorian attempts to make it less so.

The ride from Crestwood back to Skyhold was distinctly _uncomfortable_. Dorian pulled his flask from the packs on his horse’s withers, taking a quick sip and stuffing it back in before turning to shoot a glare over his shoulder at Solas.

 

He was staring at Fen’lath _again_ . The abominable cretin actually had a heartbroken look on his face, like _he_ wasn’t the one who had left her a dreadful, sobbing mess next to an admittedly gorgeous waterfall. Dorian had at least had the tact not to mention that without her _vallaslin_ , Fen’s high cheekbones became the highlight of her face. They were as worthy of marble as his profile. Dorian made a mental note to commission a sculptor to carve a bust of his darling Fen to take back to Tevinter with him when this was all over.

 

Bull, bless his brutish, sappy heart, had come immediately when Dorian had called for him, picking her up and cradling her like a baby. After getting her back to camp and tucking her into their cot, his dear _Amatus_ had also had a little ‘chat’ with Solas. Dorian didn’t know what exactly was said, but the cretin had come back with a black eye, and Bull had burns on his chest and shoulder that he’d had no problem fretting over. Bull liked it when he fretted over him.

 

Dropping back from beside Bull and behind Fen and her hart, Dorian evened up with Solas. “You can’t keep looking at her like that, you know. _You’re_ the one who broke _her_ heart.”

 

“Dorian, please.” Solas gave him a pained look. The black eye was now a sickly yellow-green eye. He wasn’t healing it? _Interesting_.

 

“No, no. Bull got to say his piece, even if it was with his fist as much as his words, and I intend to as well. Significantly fewer fists, possibly more fireballs. Potentially a larger vocabulary.”

 

“It is done, can we not keep our minds on the task at hand? I have distracted Fen- _the Inquisitor_  from her duties and the fight against Corypheus long enough.”

 

“ _Distracted_ her?” Dorian felt the urge to climb the side of Solas’s hart to try and strangle him. “You’re the only one who’s helped her stay _sane_ through half of this ridiculousness!”

 

“Dorian,” Solas sighed and gave him a hard look. “Stop.”

 

“Is it that superiority you manage to ooze no matter what company you’re in? Did you decide that one of the best and most magnificent women on Thedas wasn’t good enough for you?” He was hopping mad, and Dorian didn’t intend to leave it alone when he’d hurt his Fen so.

 

“Has it never occurred to you that maybe _I_ decided I am not good enough for _her?_ ” Fen and Bull turned around on their mounts. Solas didn’t raise his voice like that, let alone shout in anger. It hurt to see the hope in Fen’s eyes as she looked at Solas, who was studiously avoiding her gaze.

 

“Don’t you think that’s up to her?”

 

Instead of responding, Solas spurred his hart forward, cantering ahead of Fen and Bull. Fen kicked Stormhart’s sides, braids bouncing across her back as she chased after him.

 

Lace piped up uncertainly, “Should we send someone after them?”

 

Bull rumbled from beside Dorian, “Nah, they’re still a good fighting team, and the gossip will be bad enough as it is. Let them have some privacy while they still have a chance at it.”

 

“What do you think of all this, _Amatus?_ ” Bull’s Ben-Hassrath training would be able to suss out whether Solas was being untruthful or not.

 

Bull scratched his chin, the reins of his nuggalope loose around the fingers of the other hand. “He’s conflicted, that much is certain. Solas really loves her, it’s all still there in his body language and he’s beating himself up over it. There’s something else he’s guilting himself with. It may be he does think he’s not good enough for her, or maybe it’s something else.”

 

“What else could it be?”

 

“Hell if I know, _kadan_. Hell if I know. If he makes her cry again, I might have to blacken his other eye, though. No one makes my girl cry.”

 

“Hear, hear,  _Amatus_.”

 

Coming up over the rise, Dorian spied Solas and Fen’lath, both dismounted from their harts. Solas had put a soundproof barrier around them, and it appeared that Fen was shouting and gesturing at him while pacing back and forth, obsidian braids whipping around her shoulders every time she turned.

 

Solas, damn him, had his hands clasped behind his back like he used to all the way back at Haven when he was expounding on the Fade to Fen. She noticed, and the magnificent fire lit in her, marching right up to the cad and jabbing her finger at his chest while she yelled something. Fen didn’t touch, she wouldn’t be so rude, it certainly startled Solas and he stepped back.

 

Fen’lath stepped forward, expression softening. One of her small, tanned hands cupped Solas’s cheek, and Dorian felt it in his gut when the elf’s eyes fluttered closed like he was savoring the touch, then stepped away as he said something.

 

The barrier fell. Fen’s voice sounded so very small and uncertain. “Do I have your word on that, Solas?”

 

He simply nodded, and re-mounted on his hart. Bull stopped the nuggalope next to Fen and reached down, lifting her onto Stormhart one-armed. “You okay, Boss?”

 

“Not really, Bull, but at least I have something I didn’t have before.” Stormhart fell into step with Bull and Dorian’s mounts easily, used to both the horse and nugalope now.

 

“What is that, my darling?” Dorian reached out and took Fen’s hand, kissing the back of it to let her know he was there for her as she had been there for him at Redcliffe and through everything after.

 

“I have his promise that we will speak about us after Corypheus is slain. He thinks he ‘distracted’ me. If the distraction is no longer there for him to use, I might be able to get some real answers, at least.” Her voice wavered, and Dorian wanted to turn around and knock Solas off his hart for putting that waver there.

 

Bull leaned over and mock-whispered, “Would you mind if I blackened his other eye later?”

 

“Tempting as the offer is, Bull, I would prefer that Solas be able to use _both_ eyes if we’re attacked by anything.”

 

“Aaah.” Bull sat up and rolled his shoulders, which let out a series of truly alarming pops. “You _never_ let me have any fun, Boss.”

 

“I’ll admit my memory isn’t _quite_ as good as yours, Bull, but I do seem to remember bringing you along to kill at _least_ ten dragons.” Fen gave him a half-smile.

 

“You’re going to remind me about that forever, aren’t you?”

 

“Bull, _Amatus?_ ” Dorian gave Bull an innocent smile.

 

“What, _kadan?_ ”

 

Dorian sing-songed out, “You’re the one who told us what ‘ _taarsidath-an halsaam_ ’ meant after killing the Fereldan Frostback. Of course we’re going to remind you forever.”

 

Bull roared with laughter. His darling Fen smiled, at least. A full smile. Dorian peered back over his shoulder at Solas. Still that sad, lovesick look. Well, if he wanted to be a stubborn ass and make himself miserable, he could be alone in that misery. Dorian was hellbent and determined to keep Fen’s spirits up until that--that _hobo_ pulled his head out of his hindquarters.

 


	34. Spring Cleaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "This is not what I expected to be dealing with when I joined you."
> 
> The Amell Estate has been purchased, but it's a little...unsightly.

The Amell Estate, for lack of a better description, was a dusty, musty, cobweb-filled wreck. The previous occupants had been atrocious housekeepers, even for slavers. Marian stood with the mop held at her side like her halberd. She scanned the tiles of the floor, a general surveying the battlefield to determine the best plan of attack. The front door to the estate was open, both to let the early spring breezes in, and also to air out the smell.

 

Leandra was negotiating with Bodhan Feddic to get a maid or two to help with the day-to-day maintenance of the estate once they had it cleaned out and ready to live in, but there was no way she was allowing the neighbors to know that the inside of the estate had fallen into such a state. It fell to Leandra, Marian, and whomever was willing to come over and help clean to get the house back into shape to allow workmen in to repair the wood panelling and other cosmetic things her mother had prattled on about.

 

Thus far, only Fenris had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to help with cleaning the estate. Merrill had a legitimate excuse for not showing up, of course. Even with Aveline attempting to weed the bad eggs out of the ranks of the guard, Dalish elves attempting to enter Hightown had a fifty-fifty chance of being rolled and having their possessions confiscated. Aveline and Varric were working. Anders was probably at the clinic, the only thing keeping a plague from breaking out in the Darktown population. Isabela was probably at the Blooming Rose, burning her way through her share of the expedition earnings. To be fair, Marian didn’t really want Isabela anywhere near the family estate, just in case they stumbled on something valuable. It had been hard enough to keep Isabela from nicking from her coin purse when it had been empty.

 

Carver had helped them the day before since it was his off-day, joining Fenris and Marian in breaking down rickety, molding furniture and hauling it into the overgrown back courtyard of the estate. When the overgrown bramble of bushes and vines back there was tamed, it would all be burned a bit at a time and tilled into the garden soil when needed.

 

The tiles of the floor had smears in the layer of grit from the previous day. Marian eyed the filth, wondering if she needed to add more soap to the water bucket. You never knew when muck of dubious provenance would have something greasy or oily in it, after all.

 

“This is not what I expected to be dealing with when I joined you, Hawke.” A shadow fell through the open front door of the estate.

 

“And good morning to you, too, Fenris! You mean you didn’t dream of heroically attacking years of dirt and filth caked on a Hightown estate floor? Your blood isn’t pumping at the thought of taking a scrub brush to the corners? Would you leave me here to face this all by myself?” Marian put her wrist to her forehead, then flung her head back dramatically as Fenris rolled his eyes at her, “Who will save me from this fate? Oh, sweet Maker!”

 

“Are you quite finished?”

 

“For now.” Marian nodded at the broom set to the side of the door. “You get to try and sweep the cobwebs out of the corners. If you find any live spiders, I don’t want to know. Get rid of them with extreme prejudice.”

 

A corner of Fenris’s mouth twitched. “You are not fond of spiders?”

 

“Have you seen spiders? Nasty, hairy, long-legged things with too many eyes and those little things on their mouths!” She made little hooks with her fingers and wriggled them in front of her mouth. “Carver used to threaten to throw them in my hair to get me to stop picking on him.”

 

“When was the last time he did that?”

 

“Let’s see… last Tuesday, I think?”

 

The corner of Fenris’s mouth twitched again, and he turned away to ‘cough’.

 

“Well,” He took up the broom and gave her a low bow, “I will remove the spider invaders from your new home then, Hawke.”

* * *

The tiles shone in the late afternoon light, and Marian slid across them in her woolen socks. Turning to Fenris with a grin, she lifted a foot and wiggled her toes, “The benefits of socks over wraps. Just don’t tell Mother I did that, or she’ll start on one of her lectures on how I’m supposed to act like a highborn lady now.”

 

“Has your mother ever met you, Hawke? You were not meant to be the kind of highborn lady that sits in a drawing room. I think you would go mad.” Fenris munched on a sandwich of cold sliced beef and an Ostwicker hard cheese.

 

“I would. My sister would have loved it, though.” Marian cleared her throat, determined not to cry over Bethany in front of Fenris. “I’ll just have to carry on as I have, but with better armor. Mother will learn to live with it eventually.”

 

“Mmm. I’ll be happy to join you for it, Hawke. Just one thing I have to make clear.”

 

“What’d that be, Fenris?”

 

“I do not do windows, Hawke, so don’t even ask.”


	35. In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Learning a secret and keeping it. 
> 
> Sebastian and Fenris become privy to some of Marian Hawke's private thoughts.

“You’re good friends… good… good friends,” Hawke slurred out. Marian stumbled between Fenris and Sebastian, the stairs leading from Lowtown to Hightown catching at her toes and heels. Perhaps she shouldn’t have had quite so much ale. She couldn’t even hold her head up properly or hug her arms around their necks. “You’re the best. Walking me home like you do. To my big, empty,  _ lonely  _ house I never wanted. Such good friends.”

 

“Careful, Hawke,” Sebastian cautioned. He sent a worried glance over her head to Fenris. The elf was hunched over, withdrawing into himself even has he helped hold Hawke up. She stumbled, uncoordinated feet and inebriation finally taking over, and Fenris grabbed her up to carry her.

 

“Maker’s sake, Hawke,” he groused. 

 

“We almost died in the Deep Roads so I could buy that heap for Mother, and what happens? Blighted  _ blood mage _ gets her. All my fault,  _ always  _ my fault, isn’t it? Bethany, Carver joining the Templars, all my fault.” 

 

Sebastian watched Marian’s hand fist in the back of Fenris’s shirt. His shoulders tensed under the fabric when Hawke let out a soft, hiccuping sob. “Do you want me to carry her, Fenris?”

 

“No.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Fenris shot him a glare and held Hawke closer. The look on his face clearly said ‘ _ mine _ ’. Sebastian quickened his pace, taking the jangling key ring from Hawke’s waist to unlock the door to the Amell estate. Bodhan looked up from the bench inside the door.

 

“Oh dear, again?”

 

“What do you mean, again?” Sebastian looked back at Fenris, Hawke still in his arms with her face buried in his shoulder. His face pinched and he hid behind his bangs.

 

“Messere Fenris has been escorting Mistress Hawke home at least four days a week in this state, Messere Sebastian.” Bodhan wrung his hands, concerned for the woman who was not only his employer, but his friend.

 

“Last week I vomited all over Orana’s freshly mopped floor. Because tha’s me, Marian Hawke! Ruiner of everything she touches  _ eventually _ .  _ Too  _ big,  _ too  _ tall,  _ too  _ clumsy,  _ too  _ drunk Marian Hawke. Couldn’t save her father, sister, or mother. Couldn’t even keep the man she wants from runnin’ away from her.” Hawke hiccuped and swept her arm out in a wild arc. Fenris stumbled forward as her weight shifted, but caught himself before he dumped her on the floor.

 

“I think we should get her to bed before she says something she regrets.” Sebastian nodded to Bodhan. “Would you mind locking up after we leave, Serah Bodhan?”

 

“Of course not, Messere Sebastian. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything for Mistress Hawke.”

 

Fenris edged up the staircase sideways, careful to keep Hawke from hitting her head or feet on the wall or bannister. They stopped outside her room, and Sebastian felt himself go a bit red. “Do you, ah, have her, Fenris? I don’t know that it’s quite appropriate or necessary for both of us to be in there.”

 

“What, you’re gonna run away from me, too, Sebastian? Is it because I’m not enough of a lady?” Marian started crying again. Both Sebastian and Fenris froze. She wriggled around in Fenris’s arms, “Leggo, I can do this m’self. I know I’m not  _ small _ or  _ delicate _ like a woman’s s’posed to be. I’ll just take care of m’self.”

 

“ _ Venhedis _ , woman, stop. You might hurt yourself.” 

 

Sebastian swung open the door so Fenris could stumble through with a still-flailing Marian and dump her on the bed. She curled in on herself, flapping a hand at them and slurring, “Jus’ go. Jus’ leave.” 

 

Pressing his lips together, Fenris grasped an ankle and pulled her legs out straight. He started unlacing her boots as Marian pushed at him. “Go. Leave. Mother was right. Jus’ a man with woman’s parts below the belt, she said.”

 

Both men made choking noises. Fenris recovered first, glancing at Sebastian, “You will say nothing?”

 

“Of course, Fenris.”

 

“Marian?”

 

“Go ‘way.”

 

“Marian. Please.”

 

“Jus’ leave me. Again.” Fenris flinched away at that, like he had been slapped. The boot in his hand thumped to the floor, forgotten. 

 

“I-”

 

“Mother was right. ‘M jus’ a man. Too mannish, too tall. Couldn’t save Father. Didn’t save Bethany. Couldn’t save her. Can’t even be a man right. Carver hates me. You lef’ me. Izz dumped the Qunari on me to deal with ‘n ran with her book. Jus’ a man with woman parts, can’ even keep a man. Couldn’t even keep my Fenny-Fen. Mother said so. Didn’t even get a chance to ‘pologize to her for yellin’. ‘Sall gone to shit ‘cause of Marian.” Hawke squirmed, toeing off the other boot with another thump. 

 

Fenris backed away, ashen toned under the bronze. “I-need to go. Think.”

 

“If you need to, Fenris, I’m always available for confession. Anything you need to talk about,” Sebastian tilted his head towards Hawke, now flopped on her stomach and starting to snore gently, “I am willing to listen, and it will only be between the two of us. I won’t speak with Hawke of it unless you give me permission to, and what I heard here stays here. Tell Bodhan to lock up after you.”

 

He got a nod of thanks, and Fenris backed out of the room, anguish and longing warring over his face before he turned from Hawke. Sebastian exited, settling onto the bench outside Hawke’s door. She would need support and comfort in the morning, especially after such a personal revelation.

* * *

 

“Maker’s bloody  _ knickers _ , how much did I drink last night?” Marian stumbled out into the hallway, waking Sebastian.

 

“Hawke,  _ language _ . How are you doing this morning? Do you need anything?” He stood, waiting to see whether she wanted a hug, or to talk about what she had revealed the night before.

 

“I need a bath and for the herd of druffalo in my head to go stampede somewhere else.” She blinked at him with bleary eyes. “Did you bring me home by yourself? I could have sworn I remembered Fenris at some point.”

 

“Do you remember anything from last night, Hawke?” If she didn’t remember anything, Sebastian prayed that he was making the right choice in not telling her what she’d said. She obviously wasn’t ready to talk about it, any more than Fenris was ready to talk about what had gone on between them right before Lady Leandra had died.

 

“Why, did I try to skinny dip in the Chantry fountain again?” She giggled at him when he spluttered.

 

“No!  Maker’s Breath, Hawke! Have some respect!” Sebastian ran his hand through his hair. “Just, please, try to cut down on the ale? It’s not good for you to drink so much you can’t remember what you did.”

 

“I’ll try, Sebastian.” He felt his heart tug as she bowed her head and looked at her hands. Good, strong hands that protected everyone she loved. Sebastian remembered an old Tevinter saying Fenris had told him once.  _ In Vino Veritas _ . In wine, truth. A drunk person spoke their true thoughts.

 

How Sebastian wished he could tell Leandra that her daughter was a finer woman for having hands roughened protecting the poor and weak of Kirkwall than she ever could be with hands soft from inactivity and needlework. That Hawke was a better woman carrying the weight of the city on her shoulders, broad and ‘unfashionable’ though they were, than any of the tiny, feather-headed noble daughters of Hightown who never spared a thought for anyone but themselves. 

 

And he wished he could tell Hawke the same, knowing how she truly felt about herself. 

  
  



	36. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt-"This is only the beginning."
> 
> Fen needs to work out some Solas-based frustration.

“You asked to see me, Inquisitor?” 

 

Solas stopped at the edge of the practice yard, taking in Fen’lath’s pose. The spark that had lit in the Exalted Plains was there, burning in her eyes, and flickered in every small movement of her body. For a moment, he could see her in Arlathan. Silver and bronze armor, jewels that glittered like motes of sunlight and chimed like bells when she moved glittering against her midnight hair and dripping from her ears. A crown of silverite and a wolf’s skull to let all who saw her know whose partner she was. If only… She was so voracious for any knowledge of Elvhen history, what would she make of the Vir Dirthera at the height of its glory?

 

“Well?” Fen’s head was tilted to the side. He’d missed something.

 

“I apologize, would you say that again, Inquisitor?”

 

“ _ Ugh. _ ” She tossed him a practice staff. “So we’re back to Inquisitor? Am I imagining that you kissed me on my balcony not five days ago?”

 

He caught the staff and raised an eyebrow at her. “We should be preparing to return to the Exalted Plains, Fen’lath.”

 

“Soon. First, we’re going to practice, and I’m going to work off this frustration with you one way or another.” 

 

She whipped the practice staff behind her, taking up one of the Elvhen combat forms. She had expressed interest in learning a form of combat that didn’t require magic, just in case, and he had gladly shown her. 

 

Fen circled him, eyes flashing as they caught the late afternoon sunlight. She had been driving him mad for the past two days. Bumping up against him at every opportunity, walking so close,  _ too _ close. She didn’t know what she was asking for, who she was asking it of. If she ever found out… His eyes caught hers. Fen’s chin lifted, taunting him, inviting him. The doubt melted away in the heat of her fire. Solas bowed his head, then dramatically rolled his shoulders. 

 

“If you say so…  _ vhenan _ .” She froze, beautifully imperfect lips parting in shock, and he whirled towards her, the blunted blade on the practice staff sweeping towards her shins. Fen leaped back, swinging her staff around to catch the blow. 

 

A fierce, triumphant smile lit her face, and the staves snapped against each other as they moved through the practice forms. He did love watching her like this. The flexibility cultivated by dance allowed her to swing low under his staff, move her strong legs in kicks that curled around him and would have thrown him off-balance if he did not know the counters. 

 

They flowed from the practice forms to dancing around each other, staves still slapping against each other with loud cracks. He caught her in a hold and bumped his nose against hers, taking deep breaths with the delicious burn of the exercise. “Very good, Fen. Now, add the Step.”

 

She nipped his jaw, then misted out of his grasp and across the field. Their staves whirled as they charged each other, Stepping together with a loud crack of wood on wood. His stave swung to catch her in the small of the back, and she Stepped away and around, sweeping the blunted blade at his shins. Solas let out an exhilarated laugh as he leaped over it, then Stepped around and caught her in another hold. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Bull and the Chargers leaning against the fence, Varric sitting on the top rail with a book spread over his lap. It appeared the bets were flying fast. Solas breathed on Fen’s ear, feeling her shiver. “Are you letting me win,  _ vhenan _ ? Tsk, tsk.”

 

She grabbed his elbow and dropped, flinging him over her back. He Stepped in mid-air, and swung back towards her with a growl. Fen snarled back at him, then Stepped to him at full speed, crashing into his chest and sending them tumbling. Dust kicked up as they grappled, and he pushed himself up, attempting to catch her in another hold. She rolled across his back as he stood, and with a triumphant bark he Stepped out from under her, dropping her into the dirt with a billow of kicked-up soil and a loud, “OOF!”

 

Solas picked up his staff, and leaned on it as he stood over her. “Do you concede, Fen’lath?”

 

Her staff swept him off his feet. Blue sky was replaced by a dusty, dirt-caked Fen, the tip of the blunted staff blade nudging his chin as she straddled his chest. Her eyes sparkled and her tone was snarky, “Never again will we submit, Solas. It’s kind of the motto.”

 

Laughter bubbled up, and he dropped his head back into the dirt as he let it loose with a freedom he had not felt in far too long. She started giggling too, and then stood carefully, reaching a hand down to help him up. He took her hand and stood, then stepped in closer to her. 

 

Fen’s breathing quickened, and he brushed a smear of dirt from her cheek. “You are more than I could have ever dreamed, Fen’lath.”

 

“Nice to know I rate higher than your dreams.” So breathy and her pupils had blown wide, a bare ring of Fade around deep, dark, sparking pools. He draped his arms around her shoulders in a hug, pulling her small form to his, and he nuzzled his nose in the dusty mess of tangled midnight on top of her head.

 

“Shall we go in and clean up,  _ vhenan _ ?” Hands slid down her arms, skipping to her hips when they bent to wrap around his waist. 

 

“My chambers?” She stood on tip-toe and nipped at his collarbone. 

 

“Yes,” A knuckle lifted her chin, their eyes meeting. “I sincerely hope your advisors are not planning for anything later. We will be quite occupied.”

 

“Oh?” Fen tilted her head, looking up at him through inky lashes.

  
“This is only the beginning,  _ vhenan. _ ” He flung the practice staves in the general direction of the weapon rack, and lifted Fen up against his chest. “I intend to take my time with you.”

* * *

“Whew, I need a drink!  Didn’t know the Fadewalker had  _ that  _ in him.” Bull slapped a few sovereigns into Krem’s hand. “By the way, Dalish, you been holding out on us, or is that something all elf mages can do?”

 

“I’m not a mage! I wouldn’t know.” Dalish smirked at Bull and sashayed away, arm-in-arm with Krem to help him drink his winnings.

 

Varric hopped off the fence after tucking his book into the satchel that never left his side. Slapping his hands together, he grinned at Bull, “What do you say, Tiny? Should we go in and get a bath and food ordered for those two? I don’t think they’re thinking about the finer details of the romantic evening that appears to be on the horizon.”

 

“Sure thing, Varric,” Bull rolled his shoulders with a few pops. “After we get that taken care of, I think I’m gonna go track down my mage and see who can set the most curtains on fire.”

  
  
  



	37. Right, Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DA:O Companion Challenge Prompt: Free Form: Anything at all, as long as it's from the Companion POV
> 
> Alistair needs advice of a special sort. So, like any nervous young former-Templar-turned-Grey Warden would do, he gets drunk and asks Leliana and Zevran.

_ Right, yes. Time to do this. _

 

Shale, Sten, and Morrigan were with Gwyneth scouting ahead into the Brecilian Forest, and Wynne was attending to the elves in the Dalish camp, their fires glittering across the clearing from their own fire. Hero was asleep in Gwyn’s tent. Now was his only chance. Setting aside the last bottle of Antivan brandy, glass clinking against the other two empty bottles, Alistair tried to stroll nonchalantly to Zevran and Leliana where they were huddled around the fire. They looked up from the stew pot when he spoke, with only a little slurring! “So… Zevran, Leliana. I have something important to ask you.”

 

“Alas, Alistair my friend. I’m afraid I must decline. Our lovely Warden would surely be heartbroken were I to steal you from her.” Zevran smiled at him, smug git, and sipped his own brandy.

 

“And I don’t look at you that way, Alistair, I’m sorry.” Leliana gave him a sweet, innocent look.

 

Rather than blushing and scurrying off like he wanted to, Alistair gave them a drunken glare. “That’s not what I was going to ask you, and you know it.”

 

“Of course. Sit on down here, Alistair, and ask your question.” Zevran scooted over on the log, leaving more space for Alistair to sit.

 

He thudded down, and took a deep breath.  _ Okay, this is it. For you and Gwyn. Gwyn especially.  _ Alistair could feel his cheeks heating up as he stammered out, “So, Gwyn and I… neither of us are very…  _ experienced _ . I adore her. I do. But if we, erm…  _ woo…  _ each other, I do have at least a good foot on her… and I weigh more… Um, she’s just so small and delicate… and...I--I don’t want to hurt her, but I don’t know what I’m doing!”

 

Leliana’s eyes went round, and she let out a surprised, “Oh!”

 

Zevran’s smile got wider and wider as Alistair spoke, and he had a bad feeling at the way the elf’s eyes danced with delight. Another slow sip of brandy, “So I was right!  You  _ are _ woo-less!”

 

Smacking a hand over his face, Alistair groaned, “I knew this was a bad idea. Nevermind. Three bottles of Antivan brandy gone to waste.”

 

“Zevran, hush! We need to help him, he’s concerned for our dear Gwyn, and that’s adorable.”

 

_ Great, it’s ‘adorable’ and not serious. This was so a bad idea… but Gwyn. C’mon Alistair, suck it up, and listen enough to get the basics.  _

 

“If you two are  _ quite _ done, I am absolutely serious about this. I’ll ask Wynne if neither of you are going to at least pretend to be as serious as I am.” He made like he was going to stand up, but was happy to drop back down onto the log when Leliana frantically waved him back down.

 

“Sit! Sit back down, I’m sorry, Alistair.” The redhead cocked her head to the side, “You really do care about Gwyn, don’t you?”

 

_ Well, duh. _

 

“I thought at least that much was obvious.” Alistar rolled his eyes at Leliana.

 

“Ah, my friend. It is more than obvious. And I am glad that we are available to help you with your predicament. She is a beautiful woman, and she deserves to feel that way after a vigorous… _wooing_.” Zevran dodged the half-hearted slap.

 

“She is beautiful, and precious, and I just  _ feel _ so much for her.” Alistair pressed his hand over his eyes.  _ Don’t be a crying drunk, don’t be a crying drunk. _ “I would feel awful if I didn’t make our first time special… or if I did something wrong and hurt her. I’ve heard it can hurt if you don’t do it right.”

 

“It can, but we will help you out as much as possible, no more teasing. Right, Zevran?” Leliana shot a glare across the fire at the elf.

 

“Of course, of course.” He flipped a careless hand at the Chantry sister. “Now, before we just start throwing advice at you, perhaps you should tell us what you do know of the act?”

 

_ Right, well, here goes nothing. _

 

“So… I don’t know much, just a forewarning. I mean, I  _ know _ the basic mechanics, and… Maker, Zevran, don’t laugh at me. I had to down three bottles of Antivan brandy just to do this. So what I do know...”

* * *

They heard the rumble of Shale’s voice first, and felt the subtle vibrations of the ground from the golem’s heavy steps. Alistair shot up from his seat, “She’s almost back!”

 

“It’s alright, Alistair, calm down. We’ve covered the basics. Check in with her, listen to what she says, take it slowly, and spend plenty of time beforehand making sure she’s comfortable and enjoying herself.” Leliana looked at Zevran. “Any other advice? Quickly, before they get back.”

 

“Hmm.” Zevran tapped his lips, enjoying the panicked look on Alistair’s face as Morrigan’s voice came through the trees. “The only thing I would suggest so things don’t end too quickly, if you understand my meaning, would be to spend some time  _ alone _ before hand. Take things in hand, as it were. Do you understand?”

 

“Maker’s Breath.” Alistair could feel himself going completely red, even with all the brandy still sloshing in his system. “Yes, I get it. Do...things beforehand so I’m not… done to quickly with Gwyn. Right. Maker.”

 

“Don’t worry, Alistair, everything will be fine. You two care about each other a great deal, and that will help.” Leliana gave him an oddly reassuring nod. “Trust in yourself.”

 

_ Oh yes, trust in the one who asked Leliana if she was a woman. And once asked a new dwarven recruit if they were a mage.  _ Fantastic  _ idea. _

 

“Alistair, wipe that look of your face or Gwyn is going to worry that Zevran and I are being mean to you. Oh! Last piece of advice. Don’t rush it. Let everything build. Even if that means delaying taking her to your tent another night. Make sure the time is right for both of you.” 

 

She stood, brushing herself off. “Well, I must get the dishes from the creek, they should be dry now. Zevran, come help me carry them.”

 

Leliana and Zevran passed Sten, Shale, Morrigan, and Gwyn as they entered the camp. Morrigan immediately passed the fire and went to the tent set up on the far side, lighting her own fire and pulling out that book Gwyn had given her. Sten and Shale stopped in front of Sten’s tent, rumbling to each other as Sten cleaned and sharpened his blade. Gwyn looked at Alistair, then flushed and ducked into her tent. 

 

Alistair was at a loss. He was still drunk, and no one to talk to, since Wynne appeared to be staying with the Dalish tonight. The log rocked as Sandal plopped down next to him, hands folded as he waited for a bowl for the stew. The slur still in his voice, Alistair looked at the dwarven boy and asked, “Well, do you have any advice for a lovesick fool?”

 

“Enchantment.” 

 

“That is surprisingly good advice.” Hero let out a yip, bouncing into Alistair’s back. “Oi! What’s that all about?”

 

“Alistair? Are you drunk?” Gwyn’s head was sticking out from her tent. She was changing. Alistair gulped when he realized he could see that she was only in her smalls.  _ Thank you, Maker, for this angle.  _ Wait, she’d asked a question.

 

“I’m not as think as you drunk I am!”  _ Smooth, Alistair. Time to go drown ourselves in the creek? Yup. _

 

She let out a snort of laughter, nose crinkling. “I think you’re drunker. Give me a minute to finish changing, and I’ll get you a fresh skin of water. You’re going to wish you were dead tomorrow otherwise.”

 

Gwyn ducked back into the tent.  _ Maker, could I love this woman more? _

  
  
  
  
  



	38. The Imperial Enchanter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion Challenge Prompt: DAI Recruitment: Meeting the Inquisitor from a companion or a refused companion's POV.
> 
> Madame de Fer's first impressions of the Herald of Andraste.

_ Oh, dear. This will not do, this simply will not do. _

 

Vivienne had heard that the supposed Herald of Andraste was, of all things, a Dalish elf, but this… The Dalish was a  _ mage _ , and had no concept of proper attire for attending an Orlesian salon. She was covered in dust from travel, and looked to be wearing something more fitting for an Avvar barbarian than the chosen of the Maker’s Bride. The winter chill was quite harsh in Ferelden and outside Bastien’s chateau, but really. Lady Montilyet should have had the girl properly dressed, or at  _ least  _ coerced her into covering those barbaric marks on her face.

 

Two of her guests stepped forward, hovering around the elven woman. She looked taken aback at the sudden interest, but handled it marvelously, recomposing herself and answering their questions with a politeness that caused Madame de Fer to raise an eyebrow behind her mask. The girl might be trainable. Or at least amenable to a bath and proper clothing.

 

As she had planned and hoped, Marquis Alphonse marched down the staircase spewing insults. Rather than lashing out as one would expect of a savage Dalish, the dark-skinned elf simply raised a midnight brow at him. Surprisingly, Seeker Pentaghast stepped forward, sword half drawn, and the elf merely laid a hand on her forearm. Her chin lifted, and with an accent far more cultured than one of her people was expected to have, spoke. “I’ve never made any claims to holiness.”

 

Vivienne lifted the corners of her mouth a touch. Oh, she had no idea how to play The Game. It wouldn’t take her much effort at all to manipulate the clueless dear into becoming an ardent supporter of the Circle way of life and her protegee. The title of First Enchanter of Montsimmard would be hers once again, and the Circles restored to their proper state, no matter what the rabble said. 

 

Poor, idiotic Alphonse made to draw his sword on the Herald, and Vivienne waved a careless hand, freezing him in place. Time to see what the Dalish girl was really made of, and possibly get her revenge on Alphonse for his comments at the same time. Gliding down the staircase, Vivienne drawled, “My dear Marquise, how unkind of you to use such language in my house… to my guests. You know such rudeness is... intolerable.”

 

The elf’s other eyebrow rose, and her mouth pursed, attempting to hide a frown. Interesting. Was it the Marquise’s manners, or her using magic on him that she objected to? Still, she had committed to her path, and she intended to follow through, whether the Herald objected or not. 

 

“Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” 

 

“You should.” Oh, if she had the time to sit and savor the frisson of fear in his voice, the embarrassment of being called out in front of the cream of Orlesian society. She strutted around Alphonse, sniffing delicately at him. “Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?”

 

Turning away from him dramatically, Vivienne spoke to the Herald, “My lady, you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

 

The elven woman’s unnervingly green eyes glanced at Marquise Alphonse, then raked over Vivienne. Was the elf actually…  _ judging  _ her? Vivienne’s hand twitched, a reflexive response from living so long among Orlesians. Were the Herald any other elf, Vivienne would slap her for the insolence in her tone and the flip of her hand when she spoke. “The Marquise doesn’t interest me. Do whatever you like with him.”

 

“Poor Marquise, issuing challenges and hurling insults like some Fereldan Dog Lord.” Vivienne ran her fingernails over Alphonse’s cheek and the sheen of ice over it, then snapped her fingers to release him. Making a show of her magic would keep him in line from now on, even if it wasn’t as satisfying as killing him on the Herald’s orders would be. Might as well murder him socially, instead. 

 

“And all dressed up in your Aunt Solange’s doublet. Didn’t she give you that to wear to the Grand Tourney? To think, all the brave Chevaliers who will be competing left for Markham this morning… and you’re still  _ here _ . Were you hoping to sate your damaged pride by defeating the Herald of Andraste in a public duel, or did you think her blade could put an end to the misery of your failure? Run along, my dear. Do give my regards to your aunt.”

 

Alphonse slunk off, humiliated and humbled. Vivienne could have purred with satisfaction. Now, to attend to the Herald and solidify both her political position, and ensure that the Circles came back to solidify her social position. Vivienne turned and gave a quick dip of her head, using the opportunity to survey her quarry. Up close, she could see freckles across the Herald’s nose and cheeks along with the garish aubergine tattoos.  _ Positively ghastly! _ And dear Maker, she wasn’t even wearing shoes! Her toes and feet were only separated from the chateau’s fine marble floors by those  _ hideous  _ wraps Dalish wore. Oh, she had her work cut out for her.

 

“I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering, I’ve so wanted to meet you.”

 

She gestured to the stairs for the Herald, who turned to her companions, and said, “Please wait here for me.”

 

As they ascended the stairs, Vivienne shuddered. Seeker Pentaghast was at least royalty. The other two were… distasteful companions for one so high as the Herald. A bald apostate elf whose clothes, while new, did nothing to flatter him and were in no way fashionable. The dwarf with her at least had clothes suitable for his coloring, even if he could stand a bath and buttoning up his shirt a little more. 

 

Stopping at one of the large, and recently replaced, Serault glass windows Vivienne turned and smiled as sincerely as she could. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

 

The corners of the elf’s mouth pinched at her title of First Enchanter. Oh dear, she would have to cultivate the girl carefully, make her see that the Circles to the benefit of everyone, even the Dalish heathens. The girl looked back to where Alphonse had confronted her, “Is that Marquise going to be a problem?”

 

“His aunt is the Vicomtesse of Mont-du-Glace. Not a powerful family, but well-respected… and very devout. Alphonse will be disowned for this. It’s not the first time he’s brought his aunt disgrace, but I’m sure it’ll be the last. And after such a public humiliation, I’m sure he’ll run off to the Dales to join the Empress’s war effort. Either to make a good end, or to win back a modicum of self-respect.” 

 

A groove formed between the Herald’s brows at the mention of the fighting in the Dales. This was not going as Vivienne had planned. Instead of being concerned about her own appearance and the influence that having a First Enchanter and Court Enchanter in the Inquisition would bring, the child was upset over the war tearing the Dales asunder. Certainly some of the Dalish had been caught in the crossfire, but that was  _ their  _ doing for not moving off quickly enough.

 

The Herald gave a stiff smile, and a stiffer bow, “I am Fen’lath Lavellan, First of the Dalish clan Lavellan. Your salon has exceeded my expectations so far.”

 

“I’m glad to keep you entertained, my dear. I wanted to meet face to face. It is important to consider one’s connections carefully. With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people.” Fen’lath- _ what an absurd name, she should consider changing it _ -nodded in agreement. Vivienne warmed her smile and tone, adding a cajoling note. “As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

 

Fen’lath leaned against one of the stonework colonnades and crossed her arms. “What’s in this for you?”

 

“The same thing anyone gets by fighting this chaos: The chance to meet my enemy, to decide my fate. I won’t wait quietly for destruction.”  _ Or for the rebels to gather enough support with their pitiful bleating _ . 

 

Pointed chin lifting again, the Herald raised a brow, “What exactly can you do for the Inquisition?”

 

Vivienne felt the urge to slap her again. How dare she imply that she would be just another hanger-on hoping to gain prestige by association! “I am well-versed in the politics of the Orlesian Empire. I know every member of the Imperial Court personally. I have all the resources remaining to the Circle at my disposal. And I’m a mage of no small talent. Will that do?”

 

Her snide tone brought a smirk to Fen’lath’s face. “Does that mean you’d be aiding the Inquisition from the Imperial palace?”

 

_ Why that little _ -“Ordinarily, I would be happy to serve as a liason to the Court, but these are not ordinary times. The Veil has been ripped apart, and there is a hole in the sky. It is now the duty of every mage to work toward sealing the Breach, and so I would join the Inquisition on the field of battle.”

 

Blood rushed in Vivienne’s ears as the little upstart rabbit questioned her about the loyalist mages. The Herald- _ the word was bitter even to think! _ -had no Wicked Grace face, her distaste for the Circles and the training therein plain on her face. As if there would be another answer, she asked if Vivienne was in favor of returning every single one of the rebel mob to the Circle.

 

“Where else can mages safely learn to master their talents?” Vivienne bit out, “We need an institution to protect and nurture magic. Maker knows, magic will find neither on its own.”

 

The infuriating little smirk returned, and Fen’lath straightened. She tilted her head to the side, considering Vivienne, and giving her a look like she would actually have the audacity to refuse her offer. Vivienne felt her temper rising once more when the Herald finally nodded. “The Inquisition will be happy to have you, Lady Vivienne.” 

 

_ Thank the Maker.  _ Temper banked, she gave the Herald a tight smile. She would have to work on breaking Fen’lath in and sculpting her into her protegee as quickly as possible. “Great things are beginning, my dear. I can promise you that.”

  
  



	39. Queen of Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Can you face yourself in the mirror?"
> 
> Anora Mac Tir is confronted by Gwyneth Surana six months after the end of the Blight.

Anora Mac Tir held her head high, even as the Chantry bells rang out the official marriage and coronation of the false king and his queen. The real wedding had been one short month ago. Even though Erlina was the only one present to benefit from her display of queenly dignity, she felt the need to maintain it. Soon, surely, the people would rise up and save her from her prison in Fort Drakon. The bastard had to be keeping down riots against his rule as it was, because the people loved her. Once she was back on her throne, she would hack that bastard’s head off herself, and then lock his wife up here in these rooms. His slut would be stripped of her command and her arling before being sent to the worst Circle Anora could find, after being made Tranquil. She was her father’s daughter, and she would ensure that any chance of a counter-rebellion against her rule was quashed in its cradle.

 

Faintly, the locks on the door clicked open, and the heavy Brecilian oak swung in. It took everything she had for Anora not to fling herself at the bastard’s mistress as the elven mage stepped into the room and gestured to the guards to close the door.

 

It had only been six months since the Archdemon’s fall, but to Anora’s consternation, they had apparently been very good to Gwyneth Surana, now Warden Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, and Chancellor of Ferelden. Some of the rumors Erlina had heard were too wild to be believed of course, such as the new Bann of Denerim being an alienage elf, or that the Warden Commander had been granted the Teyrn of Gwaren, _her_ teyrnir, to go with the arling of Amaranthine.

 

The elf paused to speak to one of the guards, giving Anora time to study the woman who had taken everything away from her. Her braid shifted between dark red and a rich gold blonde as she moved and it caught the light. Her Maker-cursed eyes were still just as unnervingly large, taking the term “doe-eyed” to a new level, and too bright a green to be natural for a human, emphasizing the woman’s elven heritage.

 

What was left of her father’s spy network had brought Anora the bits of information that could be found of Gwyneth’s origins. She had been a Marcher Dalish infant that Eleanor Cousland had plucked from the wreckage of aravels left behind by a Tevinter slave raid whilst on a trip to the Free Marches.

 

No one would look at her twice if she were human, but the intense coloring her heritage gave her made her stand out as exotic, if not beautiful. Anora sniffed to herself in disdain. Maker only knew what Alistair saw in her, though Anora had long ago decided it was definitely a testament to his low birth that Surana even drew his eye in the first place. A hint of heat touched Anora’s cheeks when she remembered how she had dismissed the elf as a skinny boy the first time they had met; the harsh living had stolen her bosom and hips.

 

In Gwyneth ’s favor, Anora grudgingly admitted, her garb had improved, making it worthy of being in the true Queen of Ferelden’s presence. She wore a Warden’s gambeson and silverite armor over a mage’s robes in the colors of the Grey Wardens; it was a vast improvement over the blood-spattered armor she’d last worn. The sword and shield she would normally wear as an Arcane Warrior had been set aside in favor of a polished staff topped by a milky white crystal. Anora forced herself not to back away, even though she swore the crystal pulsed malevolently at her. _Witch_ … _magespawn_...

 

Maker, the elf barely came up to her nose, and her Dalish background meant she was leanly built, slender with long, delicate limbs that looked to be about as sturdy as a bird’s. The six months of good food, regular sleep, and sitting on her arse in diplomatic meetings had added some curves to fill out the robes, but one sincerely had to wonder how she survived a stiff breeze, let alone the Archdemon, wielding a sword and shield, or Alistair’s undoubtedly clumsy, brutish affections. Anora Mac Tir, daughter of the great Loghain, Hero of the River Dane, shouldn’t be intimidated by a mere slip of an elf, even if she was a mage, nor would she be outplayed.

 

“Warden Commander.” It was the only title Anora would attribute to the woman. Hero of Ferelden, she was not.

 

“Mistress Anora.” The bitch didn’t even have the grace to end her conversation with the guard to address her queen properly or curtsy in her presence!

 

“That’s Your Majesty to you, Warden Commander. Your Highness or Your Grace are also acceptable. Your Ladyship is less so.” She wanted to fling herself at the Warden Commander when a flaming brow rose and her too-wide mouth quirked up at the corner. Anora almost missed the flash of sorrow that crossed her features. Gwyneth ’s face smoothed, and with a final nod to the guard, became serious and stoic. Ah, there it was again, the flicker of pain in the depths of her eyes.

 

“Mistress Anora, His Majesty King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden has sent me, in my capacity as Chancellor of Ferelden, to inform you that your presence will be required at the palace in four weeks’ time. On that day, you will renounce all claims to the throne of Ferelden. When you do so, the teyrnir of Gwaren will be returned to you for the remainder of your life, and a pension befitting the widow of a king will be granted to you.”

 

“Bloody Void I will!” Anora snapped, her temper flaring, “What makes the High and Mighty Bastard and that Cousland bitch he married think I’ll give up my rightful title of Queen?”

 

“Elissa is pregnant.”

 

“What?” Anora felt a cold pit form in her stomach. _No_ … _Maker, please_...

 

“The royal midwife confirmed it this morning before the coronation. Two months along, and the announcement will be made if everything is still going well on the day in question.”

 

“And how do we know it’s the Bastard’s? Ser Gilmore is of similar coloring and appearance to Alistair; it could easily be his, especially considering that they’ve only been wed a month.” Recovering from her shock, Anora allowed herself to sneer at the Warden this time. Those in the palace still loyal to her would act. If they had escaped the notice of that Maker-awful cheerful bard, that is. The network her father had set up kept Cailan’s whores from humiliating her with bastards for years; they wouldn’t fail in this. Anora threw her shoulders back, confident the network had managed to evade the Orlesian tramp. After all, Erlina was able to receive their messages sometimes, limited and sparse on information as they were. She had to get a message to them.

 

Gwyneth snorted. “You really won’t accept that someone else might be better for Ferelden, will you? Ser Gilmore is in Gwaren overseeing the teyrnir while you’re here, madam. He has been there for almost five months at my request. I can hardly handle my duties as Warden Commander and Chancellor, let alone Teryna and Arlessa. The child is Alistair’s. I... encouraged… him to spend time with Elissa before the wedding.”

 

“I gave everything of myself for Ferelden!. No matter what I did, all Eamon could whisper in Cailan’s ear was that I was barren and needed to be set aside.” Anora stopped. She had hoped to drum up sympathy with Gwyneth, but all she got was a stony glare. Anora lifted her chin, feeling tears of frustration burning her eyes, but did not let them fall. She had misstepped in attempting to use Ser Cauthrian to get rid of Surana and the Bastard, but she might be able to work the Warden in her favor yet. “Do you know what that’s like, Warden Commander? To be judged like that, for something you have no control over?”

 

Of all the reactions Anora had expected, a bark of bitter laughter was not one. Gwyneth eyed her with disbelief. “Really, Anora? You’re asking an _elven mage_ if they know what it’s like to be judged for something they have no control over? I’m a _mage_ . I was locked up in the Circle for thirteen years of my life for a whole list of sins the Chantry says I _might theoretically_ commit at some point if I don’t have a Templar up my ass and around the corner browbeating me with my cursed state every single second of every single day! To say nothing of what people assume of me simply for being an elf! And since I am cursed twice over by circumstances beyond my control, I could not do the one thing I wish with all my heart I could. Instead I am Alistair’s dirty secret. I’m his mistress, an elf, and a mage. Thank the Maker Elissa understands. If you were going for my sympathy, Anora, you failed in spectacular fashion. Instead, you just proved to me that I made the right choice when I backed Alistair over you.”

 

“How dare you! I was better at ruling Ferelden than Alistair will ever be! I am as beloved by the people as I love them.” Anora stepped forward, using her height to try and intimidate the Warden into backing down. Instead, she stepped forward and kept her tone as calm and as reasonable as she could.

 

“Really? Do you know what it’s like to sleep in a room packed wall-to-wall with refugees? To fill your belly with only a heel of bread and an entire skin of water to trick yourself into not feeling hungry for just a little while longer, knowing you may need to summon the energy to fight a pack of darkspawn on that meager ration? Have you seen what a Blight does to the towns and crofts that aren’t saved from the horde? Alistair does, and has, and that means he understands what the people of Ferelden have been through in a way that you never will, beloved or not, and the King and Queen are working to improve their lot instead of playing politics. Tell me, did you do anything when you found out that your father and Arl Howe were selling Ferelden citizens to Tevinter slavers? Alistair was at my side when we ran that lot off from the Alienage.”

 

“My father had nothing to do with that! That was all Howe’s doing!” She tried to keep her righteous fury strong. _He wasn’t the one selling them, but he knew… and I never asked where the coin came from_.

 

As if she had plucked the words right from her mind, Gwyneth hissed out, “He may not have been the one taking the coin from the Vints, but he knew where it came from. He knew Howe was jealous of the Couslands. Since Bryce Cousland swore to be heir to the throne if the Theirins died out, replacing Cailan and therefore you, why not accept that he had killed two birds with one stone by ignoring that Howe had slaughtered them all? Rendon Howe was a cowardly, sniveling weasel, and he would not have done it if he didn’t believe that there would have been consequences from an angry king.”

 

Shaking her head, Anora turned her back on the Warden, “He did what he thought was best for Ferelden, to keep it safe from Orlais. _I_ am the one who should be ruling. Can you face yourself in the mirror? You betrayed your true Queen.”

 

“The Blight gave him an _excuse_ other than his paranoia about Orlais. He did what he thought would keep you on the throne, and therefore keep him in power by default. And I face myself in the mirror every day with a clear conscience.” Gwyneth’s voice softened, and when Anora turned back to her, she had turned back to the door. “Good day, Mistress Anora.”

 

Anora sat at her desk and waited for the lock on the door to slide home. “Erlina, paper and ink.”

 

Quill in hand, she scribbled a quick order to the one loyal midwife in the palace. She couldn’t let Elissa, one time friend and protegee, do this to her.

  



	40. Run!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Well that's not good..." and "I think it's time to...run? Yes, that would be the best thing."
> 
> Fen'lath and crew don't believe the rumors of a high dragon in Lady Shayna's Valley in the Hinterlands.

“So, my darling girl, remind me  _ why _ we are tramping through the Maker-forsaken Hinterlands again?” Dorian picked his way around a large pile of rocks while making a shooing motion at a curious fennec. 

 

Fen’lath squatted down, pulling an elfroot plant out of the soil. She checked to ensure the root ball was intact, then shook off as much of the dirt as possible before stuffing it in her herb bag. “Dagna wants Drakestone, and there’s an abundance by the Dusklight Camp.”

 

Bull muttered, maul slung over his shoulder and looking glum. 

 

“What was that, Bull?”

 

“I said, there had better be something more exciting to do than get a buncha rocks for Dags.”

 

“Technically, I believe we are gathering ore for the arcanist, Iron Bull, not rocks.” The corners of Solas’s mouth twitched when the giant Qunari rolled his eyes and grumbled at him.

 

With a laugh, Fen stood up and dusted her hands off on her leggings. “Bull, the scouts from Dusklight have sent reports of dragonlings in Lady Shayna’s Valley. I know dragonlings aren’t  _ real _ dragons, but we can consider them practice for the one in the Storm Coast, right?”

 

Bull’s good eye lit up, and he let out a high squeal of delight that had Dorian rolling his eyes and cursing to himself in Tevene. The Tevinter mage looked at Fen and spoke in a pained tone, “Are we really going to have to fight those nasty lizards, my darling?”

 

“They’re only the young ones, Dorian. You, Solas, and I get to stand back and sparkle while Bull plows through them with that hammer of his.”

 

Bull grinned, mischief crossing his face as he leaned over to Dorian and whispered at the top of his lungs, “The hammer is my p-”

 

“Bull!” Fen scolded. 

 

“Ah, Boss, you never let me have any fun!” Bull pouted, bottom lip sticking out. 

 

“I let you have  _ plenty  _ of fun, Bull. There’s all the Venatori I’ve brought you along to kill,” she ticked off on her fingers, “The bears here in the Hinterlands, plenty of demons, more Red Templars than even I can count, you got a few swings in on Corypheus’s dragon, I remember at least two giants-”

 

“Yeah, yeah, you made your point.” Still pouting, Bull grumbled and went back to lead the harts, horse, and nuggalope up the rocky slope towards the camp, Dorian taking lead. Fen snickered and slipped her hand into Solas’s as they followed along. 

 

“How do you feel, Iron Bull? Do you need a distraction to focus your mind?” Solas called ahead.

 

Bull looked at the cliffs of columnar basalt that surrounded the path. “Well, this area's low on dancing girls, sadly.”

 

Solas’s eyes lit. “King's pawn to E4.” 

 

“You're shitting me. We don't even have a board!”

 

“Too complicated for a savage Tal-Vashoth?”

 

Bull let out a grumble and glared over his shoulder at the pair of elves. “Smug little asshole. Pawn to E5.”

 

“Pawn to F4. King's Gambit.”

 

“Accepted. Pawn takes pawn. Give me a bit to get the pieces set in my head. Then we'll see what you've got.” Their group entered the camp. Fen spoke with the Requisitions officer, taking small flags on stakes to plant over ore nodes for their people to gather and to tag the bodies of any dragonlings or other creatures they killed to be brought in for leather, meat, and other materials. 

 

At the mouth of the tunnel leading to Lady Shayna’s Valley, the scout stopped them and stammered, “Inquisitor, the others think I’m a nutter, but I swear on me mam’s life, I’ve seen a grown dragon flying around the valley! With all the dragonlings, I’d bet me next month’s pay it’s a Fereldan Frostback. They’re mean territorial, and reproduce like scaly rabbits!” 

 

“Fasta vass! A high dragon? I was under the impression we were only here for dragonlings and pretty rocks-ore.” Dorian shot a look at Solas.

 

Fen could feel Bull vibrating with joy at her back. They weren’t prepared for anything more than the dragonlings. But, this was the only scout of over two dozen who was claiming there was an adult dragon in the valley. “Thank you for the warning. We’ll keep an eye out for the dragon.”

 

They started around the columned basalt cliffs of the valley, marking Drakestone and obsidian deposits in turn, and Bull chortled with glee as they took down one pack of dragonlings, and then another. 

 

“My robes are absolutely  _ ruined _ , Fen. There’s no getting bloodstains out of Silk Brocade!” Dorian mourned as she scrambled up the butte in the middle of the valley, the humming of one of the oculara shards coming from above them. 

 

“I told you several times to move out of the way, but  _ nooooo _ . Fancy Dorian has to be posed just right to properly show off his profile while casting.” She balanced on the flat of a basalt column, tilting her head and listening to the hum to determine the next column to climb onto. 

 

Solas rolled his eyes at the two of them and elbowed Bull,  “So, where were we? Ah, yes. Mage to C4.”

 

Bull scratched his chin, “Little aggressive. Arishok to H4. Check.”

 

“Speaking of aggressive. I assume Arishok is your term for the Queen? King to F1.”

 

“Pawn to B5.”

 

“All right. You have my curiosity. Mage takes Pawn.”

 

“You call your Tamassrans Mages? Ben-Hassrath to F6.” Bull elbowed Solas, causing him to stumble off balance.

 

“You call your Knights Ben-Hassrath? Incidentally, Knight to F3.”

 

“Ben-Hassrath makes more sense than horses. They're sneaky, and they can move through enemy lines. Arishok to H6.”

 

Solas nodded, conceding the point, “Pawn to D3.”

 

“Ben-Hassrath to H5. Hah! All right, take some time. Think about your life choices.”

 

“Are you two quite done?” Fen held up the shard with a cry of triumph. 

 

“For now,  _ vhenan _ .” Solas smiled up at her.

 

She grinned back, then gestured to Bull, “Catch?”

 

“You got it, Boss.” He held his arms up, and she leapt from the column into his arms with a tiny ‘oof’. 

 

Bull gave her a squeeze and then set her down. Dusting herself off, Fen slid the shard into her pack. “Well, I think we’re done here for the afternoon, unless we need any more embrium or elfroot.”

 

“We could always look for a few more dragonlings.” Bull made Big Sad Eye at her. 

 

Fen sighed and looked at Solas and Dorian. Dorian gave an overly dramatic huffing noise, holding up the corner of his robe that had three speckles of dragonling blood on it. “This robe is already irrevocably ruined, I don’t see why not.”

 

“I am not averse to spending a little more time outside of camp.” Solas unslung his staff. 

 

They found two more packs of dragonlings, much to Bull’s utter delight. As they fought the last three dragonlings, Fen thought she heard an odd, deeper shriek. One of the dragonlings flanked Bull and snapped at Dorian, and she sent a Stonefist at it, knocking it over before Solas froze it in place and Bull whipped around to shatter it with his maul. Their concentration turned back to the remaining two, and Fen looked around quickly when the odd shriek echoed again. 

 

As the last dragonling fell, they all turned around as the valley rang with the scream of a very,  _ very _ angry high dragon. She circled around, smashing into the top of the central butte and sending shattered granite raining down. 

 

"Well that's not good..." Dorian squeaked.

 

"I think it's time to...run? Yes, that would be the best thing." Fen gasped and started edging around towards the path to the camp, which suddenly seemed much further away than it had only minutes ago.

 

“But Boss!” 

 

“Bull, no! We’re not geared to fight a  _ high dragon. _ ”

 

“But-” Bull cut off as a fireball bigger than he was splashed against the cliff face next to him. “ _ SHITFUCKDAMMIT! _ RUN!”

 

The four of them sprinted, dodging the fireballs the dragon spewed out with shrieks of rage. Fen spotted the scout peering out of the tunnel, then gaping. “It  _ is _ a Fereldan Frostback! Me mam showed me a picture in a book-”

 

“No time, hide!” Fen grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the tunnel, all of them getting far enough in that they were out of reach of the fireballs, and the Frostback quickly turned away since they were no longer in its territory. 

 

“Remind me to tell Dagna and Harrit we’re going to need fire-resistant gear,” Fen gasped from where she sprawled across Bull and Solas.

 

“Gladly.” Dorian fanned himself, not even caring that his robes were now splattered with mud and covered in dirt.

 


	41. Nothing But Compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I am what you made me." 
> 
> Fen'lath has second thoughts about making Cole more spirit.

Fen’lath stood on the battlements, inhaling the crisp, biting air of the Frostbacks. She shivered, but ignored the discomfort. Varric still hadn’t spoken to her since their ‘discussion’ after they returned from Redcliffe. He refused to look at her, Solas, or Cole. Fen  _ knew _ she had made the right choice with Cole. 

 

It still felt like a disaster, though. Fen had never seen Cole so angry. The echoes of ‘You killed me!’ still rang in her ears, alongside the horrific thoughts of starving to death, locked up and alone in a tower. The Circles could never come back, not if that was what they were like. A hand went to her forehead, trying to ease the pressure throbbing behind one eye. 

 

_ “Have you talked to him since? Have you heard what he sounds like?” Dismay was clearly written on Varric’s face. _

 

_ “He sounds like a spirit.”  _

 

Even Cole’s reassurances that he was happy, that they weren’t ‘nonsense words’ he was speaking, hadn’t stopped Varric’s disappointed comment.

 

_ “He could have been a person.” _

 

She was so disappointed in herself, letting her temper get the better of her, chasing him down later and confronting him.

 

_ “‘He could have been a person?’ What do you think he is now? He is a person to me, whether he’s more like his spirit self or not.” Fen took deep breaths, trying to keep from yelling at Varric, reminding herself that he was her friend. _

 

_ “Cole should have had the chance to learn and grow! Discover new things, Grace!” _

 

_ “Funny, I could have sworn that’s what he’s been doing regardless.” _

 

_ “But now he’s a spirit! He can’t be bound, but he can be corrupted, and we won’t be able to do anything about it! Think of all the shit he can do if he starts going rotten now that he can’t be contained! If he were human and started going bad, we could do something.” Varric opened his book with a loud thump and hunched over it, dipping his quill and pretending to consider the blank page before him.  _

 

_ “Varric?” _

 

_ “What, Grace?” _

 

_ “Are we talking about Cole or Anders?” She bit out the words, tone frosty. _

 

_ He jumped, and looked up from the ink-splattered page. “I-What are you talking about? I’m talking about Cole! The kid deserved a chance to be himself!” _

 

_ “He is being himself, he’s a Spirit of Compassion. I couldn’t risk making a spirit more human. The last time a spirit couldn’t handle human emotions it blew up a Chantry.” _

 

_ “That is completely different, Grace! Cole wouldn’t go that way, I know it! He has me to watch him and help him-” _

 

_ "I'm not going to let you use Cole as a substitute for whatever you think you should have done with Anders."  _

 

_ Varric slammed the book shut, jabbed the quill into his inkwell, and grabbed it all up. A trail of dripping ink followed him out of the Hall and down the stairs. Fen became painfully conscious of the eyes focusing on her. She took another deep breath, and strode to her quarters, head high.  _

 

Finally giving in, Fen pressed both hands to her temples, the throbbing worse. She should go to her quarters and lie down, but there was too much to do. The ball at Halamshiral was coming up too quickly, and Josephine was in an absolute flap over it. The Fade behind Fen thrummed and let out an audible swishing noise. “Hello Cole.”

 

“You know now. I’m glad. No more fear, friend not foe, even if not from the front.”

 

He gave her a smile, watery blue eyes scanning her face from under the brim of his hat. The corners of Cole’s mouth drew down into a frown when he noticed her squinting against the bright light. “You’re hurting.”

 

“I’m-” He vanished in another swish. Fen blinked. She would have thought she’d be used to that by now, but apparently not. 

 

Fen was still blinking when Cole swished back into being, “Soft hands, soft voice, soothing magic sweeps away the hurts. Solas is coming as soon as he finishes washing the potions off his hands.” 

 

“I-thank you, Cole.” She fidgeted, then leaned against the battlements again. Taking a deep breath, Fen asked, “Cole, are you really happy? Being a spirit, that is?”

 

“You made me what I am.” 

 

Fen bit her lip at his tone.  _ He’s angry at me for keeping him as a spirit.  _ “I’m sorry, Cole. I should have made you human after all, if you would have been happier. I’m so sorry. I made a mistake.”

 

She straightened, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes to stop the prickling burn of unshed tears. “I’m going to my quarters. Tell Solas to meet me there, if you would?”

 

"No, you don't understand! I am what you made me. Comfort, quiet and keenly felt. Compassion. Me." Bony hands pried hers away from her face, eyes searching hers in earnest to make sure she understood. “So many voices crying out for you to choose for them, then shouting that you made the wrong choice. Small shoulders carry the weight of the world, with no chance to rest. I  _ am  _ happy. I am who I was meant to be. He will understand in time. The hurt is still too close for him to let go. When it is time, I’ll help.”

 

Fen let out a laugh, “You always know what to say to help me feel better, Cole.”

 

“That  _ is  _ my job.” He smiled, and squeezed her hands. Dropping them, he stepped away. His head tilted to the side again, and he exclaimed, “I found it! She’ll be so happy, and it’s not a very big rat!”

 

Reaching the top of the battlements staircase, Solas raised an eyebrow at that as Cole swished into nothing. “Is Cole catching rats for you,  _ vhenan? _ ”

 

He laughed at the look of horror on her face, and then she dissolved into laughter too. 

  
  



	42. Doing the Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I'm so close to stabbing someone right now, you have no idea."
> 
> Fen'lath welcomes Orlesian dignitaries to Skyhold.

“Do I really have to do this, Josephine?” Fen’lath gasped out as her maid, Coeur, pulled the laces of her corset tight. She clung to the bedpost, letting out a little whine as the maid tightened the corset again. 

 

“Absolutely, Fen’lath. It is proper protocol to meet with our contributors on their first visit to Skyhold.” Josephine was scribbling on her noteboard, looking over Fen with a critical eye. “Not so tight, Coeur, she’s not used to corsets. We just want a clean outline, she’s not going to an Imperial salon.”

 

_ Yet. _ Fen took a deeper breath of relief as the laces loosened, then let out a squawk as Coeur tied off the corset, moved around the front and shoved her hands in to adjust Fen’s chest. Fen stumbled back, “ _ Fenedhis! _ At least warn me first! And your hands are cold.”

 

“I apologize, my lady.” Coeur bobbed a small curtsey, “I’m going to adjust you into your corset now.”

 

Resigned to her fate and shooting a glare at a snickering Josephine, Fen let the maid push and pull until she looked like she was far more endowed than any other elf on Thedas ever had been. “Please tell me I’m not going to be in one of those ridiculous gowns with a mask, at least.”

 

“Of course not, Fen. Court gowns are not appropriate for this, since you are the one in the position of power here, and they are the ones coming to you.” Blowing out the candle on her noteboard, Josephine set it aside on Fen’s desk carefully and swept into the large closet. Her voice was muffled as she yelled out of the closet, “When we were in Haven, it would have been appropriate for you to have been in a court gown if we had the means at the time. We needed their contributions and we were suppliants. Now, you have Skyhold, contributors from Ferelden, the Free Marches, Nevarra, Antiva, and Rivain. Many of them started donating to us before these particular Orlesians did. You are the Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor, you closed the Breach at the Temple, and you are the only hope of defeating Corypheus.”

 

“I’m the one in the position of power, and they’re in the position of suppliant looking to get a pat on the head for their donations to the Inquisition.” Fen sat down on the stool Coeur indicated, ramrod straight thanks to the corset, and the maid began brushing her hair. She let out a little purr of delight. 

 

“Not _exactly_ the phrasing I would have used, but yes.” Josephine emerged from the closet, a black skirt draped over one arm, and a burgundy coat draped over the other. She carefully laid them out on the bed, then turned to Fen, critical eye back in full force. “Coeur, the only cosmetics the Lady Inquisitor will require are her lip stain and some khol for her eyes.”

 

“Yes, Lady Montilyet.”

 

“Thank the Creators.”

 

“Oh, hush. Dorian is going to be over the moons that he’s finally gotten you to wear more than the lip stain.” Josephine drummed her fingers against her lips. “Hair up in a braid coronet on top of her head to display her ears, and the combs with the garnets in front to resemble a tiara.”

 

Fen gave Josephine a grateful smile. No more arguing about hiding her ears. Coeur quickly started brushing and braiding, twisting and pinning until the entire mass of Fen’s hair was up on top of her head. Josephine dug into the depths of Fen’s jewelry trunk and muttered to herself in Antivan. Standing was a feat, as was stepping into the ruffled hoop skirt the cursing Antivan ambassador insisted was absolutely necessary for the skirt. 

 

“Be glad, Fen. If you weren’t wearing the hoop skirt, you’d have to wear shoes instead of wraps. I can compromise when necessary, you know. It’s in the job description.” Josephine smiled over the lid of the trunk. “Rings or no rings?”

 

“I’m not used to wearing any jewelry at all-”

 

“No rings, reduce the risk of snagging on gloves-Coeur, here are the combs for her hair once the jacket is on-your ears aren’t pierced and I have no intention of changing that... Hmm.” The trunk thunked shut.”Get the skirt and jacket on, please.”

 

Tamping down on the urge to run and hide somewhere, preferably the rafters in the Armory, Fen let Coeur tie her into the billowing black skirt and button her into a snowy white silk blouse before helping her put her arms into the velvet jacket and sealing the single frog closure. Josephine led her to the mirror, and she observed the Other Elf she was becoming intimately familiar with. Other than the ears, large, tilted eyes, and intense coloring, she might pass for a human noblewoman wearing a combination of Fereldan and Antivan fashion. 

 

“Finishing touches, Coeur, then escort Her Worship downstairs to be introduced to the Inquisition’s guests.”

* * *

Fairly stomping up to Josephine an hour later, Fen kept her ‘polite smile’ plastered on her face and snarled out through her clenched teeth, "I'm _so_ close to stabbing someone right now, you have no idea."

 

Josephine nodded to a server and took a goblet of wine, lifting it to her mouth and speaking while it camouflaged her lips, “You’re doing a magnificent job, Fen’lath, there’s no need for bloodshed.”

 

“That Chevalier, Du Bourgier, has called me a rabbit to my face no less than five times now.” Josephine grimaced and took a swallow of her wine in distaste at the man’s behavior. Fen leaned in like she was saying something conspiratorial, “He’s also tried to back me into a corner to attempt to grope me _twice_.”

 

“Next time he tries, trip him or do something to cause a scene and embarrass him, Fen. Remember, _you_ have the power here, and he is pushing the bounds of propriety.” 

 

With a little feral grin, Fen swept away. “Duly noted.”

 

She circulated, listening to the other Orlesian guests talk at length about absolutely nothing, which she found an amazing talent. Most of them were fairly pleasant for Orlesians. She felt an arm snake around her waist and hot breath on her neck again, accompanied by a sneered, “Come with me, little rabbit.”

 

Fen pinned his arm and turned away from him, forcing him to move with her or else have his arm broken. Using her momentum, she swung him into one of the long trestle tables, splattering him with wine and the little finger foods that had previously covered the tables. 

 

“Chevalier, I don’t know how they do things in Orlais, but I would expect assaulting your host and insulting her to her face would be considered gauche, at least. Even the  _ Dalish _ expect better behavior.” Fen turned to Josephine. “I believe I will retire to my quarters, Lady Ambassador.”

 

“Yes, Inquisitor.” As Fen passed, Josephine stopped her and gave her a smile, “Well done. I’m sorry you had to do this, Fen. Doing the pretty is never fun.”

  
  



	43. Unexpected News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I didn't go looking for you, but I found you anyway."
> 
> Marian has news for Fenris that will change their lives forever

“I’m… I’m sorry, but could you repeat that?” Marian heard blood rushing in her ears as she stared at the Rivaini healer sitting across from her, a knowing smile on her weathered face.

 

“Congratulations, I said. You’re going to have a little one in about six and a half months.” The woman, Ishta, poured a cup of steaming tea and held it out. Ginger, cinnamon, and cloves wafted from the cup. “Drink, this will help heal what needs it and ease the nausea.”

 

Taking the cup, Marian asked in a daze, “How?”

 

The healer raised an amused brow, “Do I have to explain to you?”

 

“NO! No, that’s… I’m well aware. My partner and I have been using witherstalk religiously, though.” Marian weakly waved the hand that wasn’t clutching the teacup like it was the only thing anchoring her to sanity.

 

“It helps, certainly, but nothing is guaranteed,” Ishta cackled. “Your witherstalk could have been too old, the plant wasn’t harvested at the right time, or it could have just been a bad patch it was harvested from.”

 

Marian nodded weakly, still in a daze. She sipped the tea, letting the warm flavors wash over her tongue. It did ease the nausea that had prompted her to visit a healer, thank the Maker. Taking a deep breath, Marian clutched the cup to hide trembling fingers, “Is the… baby alright? I know I’m not the most feminine woman, is that going to affect the child?”

 

“Pfhaugh, the child is in perfect health thus far, and you’re perfectly feminine, Champion.”

 

Marian choked on the mouthful of tea. “How-?”

 

“This is Rivain, I’m a seeress as well as a Spirit Healer. A most persistent little spirit came to tell me you’d be visiting. Compassionate, too. Told me some interesting things. You’ve spent your life being compared to those frail little Orlesian and Marcher noblewomen. I can see old Rivaini blood from the Amells and your Fereldan father in your frame. Be proud of it, and it’s just as feminine as any other woman’s.” Ishta measured more tea into a large pouch. “You should settle somewhere soon. Roaming around the Marches and Rivain won’t be good for the little bit for much longer. If you feel nauseated, steep a teaspoon of this in a full teapot. Not as convenient as having a Spirit Healer at your beck and call, but it does well enough.”

 

‘Thank you.” Digging into her coin pouch, Marian dug out several sovereigns and pressed them into Ishta’s hand as she took the tea. She stood, and blinked several times, thinking she didn’t quite know what to do. The older woman stood, black braid streaked with silver falling from her shoulder down her back, and walked around the low table between them before folding Marian into her arms.

 

“Go tell your man he’s to be a father.” Holding Marian by the shoulders, she drew back, giving her a look that was maternal in nature. “Stay safe, Marian Hawke, and hold onto your happiness with both hands.”

* * *

 

The market of Dairsmuid greeted her as she exited Ishta’s little shop. Fenris wouldn’t be far, he never was. How he managed to blend in while wearing his black armor and the white fabric head-covering that was popular in the Anderfels amid the riot of colors, Marian would never know. She felt more than heard him fall into step behind her off her left shoulder. Raising a hand, she signaled ‘later’ and proceeded to the little inn near the docks where Varric had arranged a room for them. Zevran would be coming in a week or two for his routine check-in.

 

Marian barely restrained the panicked giggle that bubbled in her chest. Varric was going to go insane trying to find a holding secure enough for her to have a babe in. Springtime eyes darted a quick glance to her left, shooting a nervous smile over her shoulder at her glowering, broody shadow. Fenris would insist Varric choke down his dislike of Sebastian and work with him to find something in or around Starkhaven, most likely.

 

They drifted into the inn, acting more like working partners than a couple married in all but name. Theirs were the only footsteps in the stairwell, and as was their routine, Fenris opened the door with Marian at his back, pike at the ready and a Crushing Prison just a breath away in the Fade. The room secured, Fenris had barely finished removing his headcover before he was holding her, eyes searching her face for answers, “Well? What is this illness?”

 

“Well, it’s not so much an illness as… erm… oh Maker, I don’t even know how to say this.”

 

“Say what, Marian?” His face paled under the darker tan he had acquired during the months they had been in Rivain, “You’re dying?”

 

“No, nothing like that! It’s… good news?”

 

“Well then?”

 

“I’m trying, Fenris! It’s kind of blindsided me.” Marian took a deep breath, and dropped into one of the chairs furnishing the little room. “Sit down, please.”

 

Fenris sat, balancing on the edge of the other chair like it was going to bite him. Marian took a deep breath, and let it out with a pointed huff, fluttering the hair hanging across her forehead.

 

“Ishta has found the cause of the nausea and related unpleasantness.” He waved a lyrium-lined hand in a ‘get on with it’ gesture. “I’m pregnant, Fenris. We’re going to have a baby.”

 

She could see the news hitting him slowly in the expressions that crossed his face. Shock, first, then disbelief, terror, wonder, terror, amazement, confusion, terror, and back to disbelief. His voice cracked, “How?”

 

“That’s what I asked! It seems we’re one of the lucky pairs that the herbalists are talking about when they warn witherstalk isn’t a guarantee.” Marian kicked back in her chair. “I don’t even know what to do. Any ideas?”

 

She looked over at Fenris, and sat up when she realized that he had his head in his hands and his shoulders were shaking. Raising his gaze to her, tears were in his eyes but refused to fall as he choked out, “I will be a father? Truly?”

 

“Yes. Yes, Fenris.” Her elf stood and pulled her up from her chair, and wrapped his arms around her, fairly crushing her in his embrace as he buried his face in her neck.

 

“I do not deserve this,” he rumbled into the curve of her shoulder. “A slave… a slave expects nothing. I never thought to find love, or peace. Now, to be a father…”

 

“I didn't go looking for you, but I found you anyway. Just kind of stumbled onto you, like I did everything else good in my life. I love you so much, Fenris. We’re going to have a baby.” Marian felt tears roll down her cheeks, and she let out a giddy laugh. “We are going to have a baby! Maker, what are we thinking?”

 


	44. The Final Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A memory from your character's childhood that helped shape them into who they are. 
> 
> Gwyneth tells Morrigan about the first time she ever took a life.

“Why do you keep acting like this, Morrigan? Trying to get me to kill a little boy, I’m sure you would have told me to leave the mages in the tower to the mercy of the Templars. Why are their lives worth so _little_ to you?”

 

“This is a war, Gwyneth. You cannot save everyone, nor should you try to. Lives will need to be sacrificed in the end to stop the Teyrn and the Archdemon. I do not yet trust that you can strike the blow yourself.” The rustle of a turning page punctuated her cruel tone.

 

“You know, Morrigan, I killed before I was a Warden.” Gwyneth stirred the coals of the witch’s fire, lifting tired eyes to the other woman. 

 

“I doubt the spiders and other pests in that tower of yours count,” Morrigan sniffed as she turned another page in her mother’s grimoire. 

 

Gwyn snorted. “That’s what you think of me and the Circles? Let me tell you, the Circle isn’t for the faint of heart. Only someone who sees it from the outside, or thinks like Wynne, would think it’s a place that makes soft, obedient, frightened little mages.”

 

“Are you saying it doesn’t?” An ebon brow raised.

 

“Do I seem soft, obedient, or frightened? As for my fellow Circle mages, a handful of them held off blood mages and abominations for two weeks or more before we arrived and cleared Kinloch Hold while the Templars wept, prayed, and waited for more arms to Annul the tower.” 

 

Morrigan tilted her head to the flame-haired elf, conceding the point.

 

“Circle mages become familiar with death _all_ too soon, Morrigan.”

 

“So what did you kill then? A rabbit or something on your trip from the Circle to Ostagar? A chicken in the tower’s kitchens?”

 

“A man. An apostate hedge mage the Templars dragged in.” 

 

Morrigan drew back, surprised. Gwyn drew in a shaky breath, and left off poking at Morrigan’s fire. She picked up her lute and started plucking at it, the notes loud enough to drown her voice for the rest of her camp, but not for the other woman’s ears. 

 

She could see curiosity glittering in the other mage’s eyes, and ground out, “Alistair is the only other person who knows this, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

 

“I agree to your requirement.”

 

“It was when I was eleven. I was helping Solona in the infirmary-”

 

“How were you helping in the infirmary? You are no healer.” 

 

Gwyn shot Morrigan an annoyed glance, “I already excelled at paralysis glyphs and sleep spells. Who better to help hold a patient still when a bone needed to be set, or assist when one of the little apprentices is ill and can’t sleep because of a fever? Anyway. The Templars brought in the apostate mage, and he was brought to the infirmary to be healed before he was to be made Tranquil.”

 

Gwyneth made a face, anger and helplessness chasing each other across her features, “They wanted him to be fully lucid and ready to be put to work before they branded him, you know? Why waste all that  _ valuable  _ time where he could be earning coin for the  _ Chantry  _ on him  _ convalescing _ . They said he attacked them when they attempted to apprehend him, but even I knew better. Every mage working in the infirmary knows what defensive wounds from fighting off someone who’s wearing plate and assaulting you look like.”

 

Morrigan sat forward, an unusual note of concern making her voice harsher, “Gwyn-”

 

“It never happened to _me_ , Morrigan, but I… helped, after, once or twice. Sleep spells only. I never had to assist with the clean up or healing of the ones it happened to, but Solona did. She would wake up from awful nightmares, and I’d sit with her. We knew that their claim he attacked them was bullshit, in any case. They gave him a concussion bringing him in, too.” Gwyn had given up any semblance of playing her lute, setting it to the side again. 

 

“I’ll assume the Circle is wise enough not to try and rush healing those,” Morrigan murmured, shifting and pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders.

 

“Quite. I volunteered to sit with him overnight to keep watch. While the Templars were breaking each other, he begged me to kill him. He said he’d rather be dead than Tranquil. Begged me, an eleven year old who hadn’t seen the outside world in five years. I asked him to tell me his name, and to tell me every beautiful thing he could remember seeing while I waited for the Templar shift change.”

 

“What did he tell you about?”

 

“Sunrise in the Frostbacks. Making friends with a squirrel outside a little village in the Free Marches before he was discovered and ran. He named it Lord Chitterly and it would eat nuts and dried fruit from his palm. The smell of the Storm Coast. When the shift changed, I wove a quick paralysis glyph around his heart, and waited until he was gone before I undid it. I waited another half hour, acting like I had nodded off before I raised the alarm and had them go for Solona.”

 

“So tell me, Gwyneth, why did you do that?” 

 

“He asked me to, and he was kind to me. If I had the choice, I never would have left Highever, but I also probably would have died when Arl Howe razed the place.” She sighed and stood up, “I just want to be able to make the choice for how I die in the end, instead of having the weight of the Calling force my hand, like he did. He got to make his final choice. So many of us have had things forced upon us, destinies, or fate, or whatever one would call it, and not by choice.”

 

As she turned to go back to her tent, Morrigan called to her, “Gwyneth.”

 

“Yes?”

  
“Do you regret it? And what was his name?”

 

“I’ll never regret it. Kieran deserved to go the way he wanted to.”

 

* * *

  
  


Looking at the little male child she had just birthed, Morrigan was reminded of Gwyneth, oddly. Not Alistair, though she could see her child’s father in him a little. The shape of his nose, a hint of him in the jawline. The Rivani woman who acted as her midwife helped her sit up, and placed her son on her chest. 

 

She would not be the mother to him that Flemeth had been to her. He would be given love, and kindness. He would chart his own course, and she would not manipulate her precious child to her own designs. He would have the freedom to make his own choices for himself, like Gwyneth had wished for. 

 

“He’s a fine, healthy lad, mistress. What will you call him?”

 

Morrigan smiled, gold eyes going soft as she ran her fingers gently over the fine tuft of black hair. “Kieran.”


	45. Journey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family/Found Family Challenge Prompt: The Hawkes on the boat that is going to Kirkwall. A brief look into the trip.
> 
> Marian has to deal with Leandra as they travel to Kirkwall.

Marian had counted the number of pulled threads in the threadbare blanket she’d been given every day. It helped distract her and staying huddled in the scratchy woolen fabric kept her out of Leandra’s sight. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to call her ‘Mother’ again. Even after the safe arrival in Gwaren, and leaving Marian to handle the sale of what few valuable items they had to buy passage to Kirkwall, Leandra took every chance to rail at Marian for Bethany’s death.

 

Carver was always busy glaring off the prow, or gaming with the sailors to avoid their mother. Aveline, bless her, had done what she could to divert Leandra’s anger. Marian had 82 pulled, fraying threads of roughspun undyed ram wool to hide behind until the traditional evening browbeating. Maker, how she missed her father. 

 

If Malcolm had been alive, she knew Bethany would have survived, and Leandra would leave her alone. She had been their mother’s target ever since their father died. There wasn’t enough firewood because Marian didn’t chop it before going and tending to the druffalo all by herself. They didn’t get enough for selling a calf at market because Marian wasn’t as good at bargaining as her father had been. Carver ran off and joined the King’s Army because Marian wasn’t watching him closely enough. Bethany had to start embroidering items to sell along with Leandra because Marian couldn’t handle all the farm work herself. Marian didn’t have a husband because she was too mannish and always busy herding the druffalo with Valor.

 

Marian’s shoulders tensed when she heard Leandra’s voice raise over murmuring and weeping of the other refugees in the ship’s hold, “What do you mean I can’t have another cup of water? Did our fare not cover the food and water for the trip as well?”

 

“It paid for your ration, and you’ve had yer ration until evening meal, woman. We only have so much water in so many barrels.”

 

“But I’m still thirsty!” The shrill tone that meant her mother was going to throw one of her tantrums was brewing. Marian flung off the blanket, and hurried in the direction of the rising argument.

 

“You can’t just deny me water, we paid our share like everyone else!”

 

“I told you, you paid for yer ration, and you’ve gotten yers until evening meal. Now stand aside for the others to get their ration!”

 

“How dare you, you-”

 

“Mother, what’s going on?” Marian wedged herself through the people grouped around the water barrel. 

 

Leandra turned furious eyes from the tired looking sailor to her daughter. “He won’t let me have another cup of water even though I’m still thirsty! He claims I’ve drunk all of my ration!”

“How many cups did you have?” Marian put her hand to her forehead, praying to the Maker, Andraste, even the Old Gods of Tevinter that they could just get it through her mother’s bloody head that drinkable water was limited on a ship. Others were clustered around trying to get their water, and Leandra’s tantrum was preventing them from doing so. 

 

“That’s not the point, Marian!” Leandra rounded on her. “Why are you taking his side?”

 

“I’m not taking sides, Mother. I’m just trying to find out how many cups of water you’ve had to drink so far.”

 

“I’ve had five.” The words were bitten out, and an angry flush mottled Leandra’s cheeks. Marian sighed. 

 

“Mother, you only get seven cups a day, and they can only dole out so many per barrel. Ser,” she turned to the sailor, “I’ve only had three of my cups for today, may my mother have one of my two that remain?”

 

The sailor’s shoulders relaxed, and his grip on the water ladle eased. “I can do that, serah.”

 

“I thank you. See, Mother? All taken care of.” Leandra snatched the tin cup from the sailor without even a word of thanks, and drained it quickly. She shoved it into Marian’s hands.

 

“We are going to have a talk, daughter.” Watching her mother stomp off, Marian groaned internally. 

 

Holding the cup out to the sailor, he filled it and gave her a rueful grin, “Sorry it ain’t something stronger. Mams are a bear to deal with, aye?”

 

“Honestly, right now I’d rather an angry bear,” she muttered under her breath into the cup. He chortled as she drained the water and handed it back to him. 

 

She picked her way back through the people sitting and lying everywhere in the hold, grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around her shoulders. Another lecture about how it was all Marian’s fault, of course. She ran her fingers over the rough threads and started counting the pulled threads again, making the appropriate noises at the right times, lest Leandra figure out she wasn’t paying attention.

 

_ One… two… three… four… Maker, I hope she eases up when we get to Kirkwall and we have the estate to keep her busy. _

  
  



	46. Something Like Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family Challenge Prompt: A typical family dinner for your OC and their family. 
> 
> Gwyneth Surana is called upon to wrangle the royal children and her son.

“Lady Chancellor, Majesty. Do pardon the interruption.” The head nanny for the children bobbed a curtsey.

 

Alistair leaned over in the throne at the head of the dining hall, Gwyneth on his right, Elissa’s empty throne with the queen’s crown resting on the seat to his left. “Mistress Hood, what can I do for you?”

 

“The children are refusing to settle and eat, Majesty. The Princess has thrown several plates of food already.” Mistress Hood’s face pinched with worry. Princess Moira’s tantrums had grown worse as of late, and though Gwyn had done much to ensure elves working in the palace weren’t dismissed at the first sign of trouble, there was still the nagging anxiety from decades prior to overcome with many of the servants.

 

Alistair started to rise, but stopped when Gwyn laid a hand on his arm. “Allow me, Majesty. One of them is mine, after all. And the Orlesian ambassadors are here.”

 

“Ah, yes, mustn’t upset the Orlesians while they’re throwing their single daughters at me.” He grimaced into his wine chalice. After a fortifying gulp, he snarled under his breath, “Elissa’s been gone for barely three months and they’re circling like vultures.”

 

“Officially, they’re here for trade negotiations. Stick to that and pretend you’re missing the subtext.” Gwyn stood and curtsied to Alistair, then a shallower one to the guests. The Fereldan nobles smiled and nodded. With five young children occupying the palace nursery, it wasn’t unusual for the King or the Chancellor to be called away from the dining hall.

 

The Orlesians, however, flicked their fans and whispered to each other behind their masks. Lady Tangine, the woman the lead ambassador was trying to include in the ‘trade negotiations’ as Alistair’s bride, stuck the lacquered nose of her mask up in the air and made a sneering noise. “Rabbits belong in the kitchens, don’t you agree, Henri?”

 

Gwyn stood straighter and pulled her shoulders back, passing behind the lady with all the dignity she had in her and fighting down the urge to cast a Waking Nightmare on her.

 

Silk skirts swished in the silent palace halls as she followed Mistress Hood to the nursery wing. As soon as the door opened, the silence was shattered by Moira’s shrieking, what sounded like Bryce and Maric banging on the table, and Duncan squealing at his half-siblings’ antics. Little Elissa was still too young to spend much time with her brothers and sister, or she would probably be crying like a creature of the Void.

 

“What is going on here?” Gwyn placed her fists on her hips, voice authoritative. Smoke, Moira’s mabari, yelped in greeting and danced around Gwyn, but sat when she lifted her hand in command. The low table Moira ate at was splattered with mashed potatoes, small bits of roast goose, gravy, and braised vegetables. The princess herself stood on her chair, tears streaking down bright red cheeks and strawberry-blonde highlighted copper hair a riot of curls pulled free from the pigtails they were normally in.

 

The twins were in the splatter zone of their sister’s tantrum, and had bits of potato, gravy, and goose on their faces and in their hair. The handles of their forks and knives were no longer being banged on the table, and they were sinking down in their chairs, until dark amber eyes and strawberry blonde mops were the only parts of their faces visible.  Duncan gave her a toothy smile and screeched, “Ma!”

 

“Princess Moira, please get down off the chair and stop shouting. You know this isn’t how a princess acts, Your Grace.” Gwyn kept her tone even, even though the scene was quite hilarious.

 

“NO! You’re not my _real_ Mumma! _You’re not my Mumma!_ ”

 

Gwyn felt like she’d been punched in the stomach by the little girl she loved like a child of her own. What had brought this on? Thoughts whirling, she thought over what she could have done that would have made it seem like she was trying to take Elissa’s place. “I’m not… I didn’t…. I’m not trying to take your Mumma’s place, Moira.”

 

Moira stamped her feet on her chair, and shouted out, “I don’t want a new Mumma! I want _my_ Mumma! I WANT MY MUMMA!”

 

Each shout was punctuated by another stomp of her feet, and she started sobbing at the end. Gwyneth blinked at Mistress Hood, who shook her head and held up her hands in shared confusion. Speaking gently and holding back her own tears, Gwyn held a hand out to Moira, “Moira, who told you you’re getting a new Mumma? I promise, your Papa wouldn’t get a new Mumma for you without asking you first.”

 

“Lady Tangerine. She said she was going to be my new Mumma. I don’t like her! She’s mean and she wears an ugly mask and she smells like a garden barfed on her!”

 

One of Mistress Hood’s assistants tittered and then choked off in a cough. Gwyn carefully stepped around the table and knelt next to Moira’s chair. “I swear, Moira, Lady Tangine is not going to be your new Mumma. Not now, not ever.”

 

“Do you promise? She said she was going to send me away because real ladies don’t shoot arrows. Mumma shot arrows, and so did my Grandmumma!” Moira’s small arms wrapped around Gwyn’s neck and she started crying harder.

 

“I absolutely promise, Moira, love.” Gwyn stood up, Moira in her arms. “Mistress Hood, ask Her Grace’s nannies when Lady Tangine managed to get to the Princess. Ladies,” she gestured to the assistants, “Please get the Princes and Lord Duncan cleaned up and ready for bed. I need to take Princess Moira to speak to His Majesty.”

 

“Yes, Lady Chancellor.” Mistress Hood and the assistants curtsied. Gwyn paused to press a kiss to the head of each boy, whispering for them to behave, lingering on Duncan and inhaling his still-babyish scent.

 

“Your Grace, may I take you to your Papa so you can tell him what Lady Tangine said to you?” She asked Moira. The girl nodded against her neck. “I promise, I will never, ever try to take your Mumma’s place. I loved your Mumma and I miss her, too. If I have done anything or if I ever do anything that makes you feel like I’m trying to take Mumma’s place, you can tell me, okay?”

 

“Double promise?” Moira held up a chubby fist, tiny pinkie extended.

 

“Double promise, my princess.” Gwyn hooked her pinkie with Moira’s and kissed their linked fingers, then gave a wobbly smile to the little girl when she pressed a sticky kiss to them as well. She hugged the princess to her chest as she strode back to the dining hall, her fury at Lady Tangine rising with each step. When she swept into the hall with Moira in her arms, Gwyn felt a vengeful prickle of satisfaction when the lady in question shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

 

“Your Majesty, the Princess has something she needs to tell you.” Gwyn murmured to Alistair. “Tell your Papa, Your Grace, but remember to use your Inside Princess Voice, okay?”

 

Moira nodded, and stretched out an arm to Alistar. He stood and took her from Gwyneth, who sat back in her seat with a little smile for the guests at the table. He walked back behind the throne into the private nook that the royal family entered the hall from, and Gwyn could hear them murmuring to each other. Tangine had her head turned from the head of the table, and looked to be trying to get permission to leave from the Ambassador before Moira could finish talking to Alistair. She felt a vindictive little prickle of joy knowing she couldn't actually leave without Alistair's permission, or her etiquette would be called into question.

 

“Lady Tangine.” Alistair’s tone was hard and cold. He stood between his throne and Elissa’s, Moira on his hip with her head pressed into his neck. The look on his face clearly stated that he was in no mood for any games or flattery.

 

The lady stood and bobbed a curtsy, “Majesté.”

 

“You are no longer welcome in our court. Ambassador du Habier, if you wish to continue negotiations with Ferelden, you will remove this woman from our kingdom as quickly as you are able. She has insulted the memory of our Queen as well as the memory of our mother-in-law, and threatened the Crown Princess. This is not a request.” The Orlesians flinched. Everyone knew that Alistair didn't use the royal plural unless he was truly angry.

 

He sat down in his throne, murmuring to Moira and running his fingers through her riot of curls. Gwyn wished she could reach over to comfort them, but she couldn’t in public. After all, she wasn’t Alistair’s wife, or Moira’s mother. They weren’t really a family, as much as she wanted for them to be one.

 


	47. Moving In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I can fix this, I swear."
> 
> Fenris and Marian move into their holding in Starkhaven.

Fenris ran his palm up the doorjamb of the small, yet elegant holding Sebastian and Varric had obtained for him and Marian. The wood was smooth, well-oiled, and most importantly, sturdy. It was almost unbelievable to him that he owned his own house, that it wasn’t contingent on him pleasing a master or mistress. He still wanted to pay Sebastian back for the holding, but his friend-no, brother, Sebastian had asked him to consider him a brother-had given it to them as a wedding present and an early gift for the baby.

 

_ Baby. _ He swallowed against the instinctual panic. Fenris put his head to the smooth wood, and took a deep breath. He could do this. Their child wasn’t going to be taken from them for any reason if he could help it, and Marian would be as fierce as a Fereldan bear with a cub. His child would be loved from the moment it was born. He knew he would not be a perfect father, but he had vowed before the Maker to do right by Marian and the babe. His best was all he could offer. 

 

Looking in the main hall, he could see Marian puttering back and forth in an outfit similar to the one she would wear when she was at home in Kirkwall. The loose tunic was belted above the swell of her belly, and she had a hand resting protectively over the rapidly growing bump. Flinging her long braid over her shoulder, Marian directed a workman holding a rug towards their bedroom. The man hefted the rug over his shoulder and moved off, the mass of other workers quickly moving furniture and crates of things Orana and Carver had sent from the Amell estate to the various rooms. 

 

How Varric and Sebastian had pulled this off without the Seekers or the Chantry finding out that he and Marian were in Starkhaven, he didn’t know, but he felt he owed them everything. Marian spotted him in the doorway, and shuffled over to him. “We should have our own bed to sleep in tonight, isn’t that exciting? Not that playing camp in the middle of an empty foyer wasn’t exciting, but a real bed will be so much better on my back.”

 

“I appear to be remiss in my duties.” Fenris moved behind her and started circling his thumbs around the spot that he knew was bothering Marian. She let out a groan and leaned into him, resting her head back on his shoulder.

 

“It’s too late, you can’t stop now. I’ve fallen under your spell and will never escape.” 

 

“Marian, honestly.”

 

“Just a little to the left… yes, precisely there.” Fenris felt the knot loosen under his fingers, and felt inordinately proud that he had eased some of her pain.

 

“As soon as our room is all put together, I think I might take a nap.” Marian pulled his arms around her, and gently moved them around to observe the workers.

 

“Are you sure you can with this racket?” Fenris rested his chin on her shoulder.

“I’m sure I can. I think you underestimate my ability to fall asleep anywhere lately. At least Varric and Sebastian were smart and made sure this heap is one floor, or you might find me asleep on the stairs.”

 

“Or falling down them.” Marian elbowed him in the side as he grinned into her hair.

 

“Hush, you. I told you that was my shoddy boots!” 

 

“Even after you got new ones?”

 

“I was breaking them in!”

 

“By nearly snapping an ankle.”

 

“You’re awful, you know that?” She was giggling, and it lightened his heart. 

 

Marian sucked in a breath, letting out a small whimper. Fenris peered over her shoulder to see what had caused her mood to shift so suddenly. A pair of maids was unwrapping the portrait of her mother out of a crate. He remembered when Marian had found the betrothal portrait, and said that her sister, Bethany, strongly favored their mother. 

 

“Please, be careful with that,” Marian called.

 

They nodded to her, and carefully moved towards the room they had designated their library. Fenris gently guided Marian out of the way when a pair of workmen passed them with one of the crates of books, straining under the weight. 

 

“Your bedroom is finished, Mistress.” Another maid stood in the door of their bedchamber. “Shall we work on the nursery next?”

 

“Yes, please, Lysann.” 

 

“Naptime, Marian.”

 

Marian opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a tremendous crash from the library. He watched her go pale, and dash across the foyer. Fenris was right behind, praying that the noise wasn’t the portrait. Thank the Maker, it hung safe and whole above the fireplace, but the two workmen who had been carrying the crate of books stood on either side of a disaster of broken wood and scattered tomes. 

 

“Ugh, Maker.” 

 

Fenris stopped Marian from kneeling on the floor to start picking up books, and pointed a finger out the door, “You go take a nap.”

 

“But-”

 

“I can fix this, I swear. Rest and hog all the blankets.”

 

Springtime eyes lit up at the thought of not having to fight for all the blankets. “Ser, yes, ser!”

 

Fenris rolled his eyes, smiling at her as she shuffled out.

 

Kneeling, he started gathering the books in his arms, shooting a look at the two men still staring at the chaos in confusion. “Well? Let’s get this cleaned up.”

  
  
  



	48. Stand on Ceremony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Fereldan Monarch [Alistair or Anora] is visiting Skyhold. Write about the meeting between him/her and your Inquisitor.
> 
> King Alistair comes to Skyhold, with children in tow.

Fen’lath covered her mouth, choking back laughter. It was terrible to laugh, but Josephine was running around the Skyhold great hall in an absolute panic. Leliana was next to her, smiling and shaking her head. “I’ve told you already, Josephine, His Majesty doesn’t stand on ceremony. As long as we have enough cheese, he’ll be happy.”

 

“The  _ King of Ferelden _ is visiting, Leliana! Everything must be absolutely perfect! Oh! That bunting still isn’t centered properly!” The Antivan diplomat grabbed some pages to get said bunting moved an inch to the left. The signal horn echoed from the courtyard, and Josephine squeaked. “No!  _ Brasca!  _ Inquisitor, you get out there and greet the King, I have to get this fixed! Just remember, the princess and the princes are essentially his world, so keeping them happy is key!”

 

Shaking her head and still holding in giggles, Fen skipped out of the hall. She leaned over to Leliana, “How big of a heart attack do you think she’ll have when she realizes I’m greeting the King of Ferelden in Dalish wraps instead of shoes?”

 

Leliana just smiled, and then said primly, “I would lock your door and sleep with one eye open for the next month. Just a friendly word of advice. I do like the outfit. Very Ferelden, but Dalish as well. You’ll almost match His Majesty.”

 

Fen laughed, and quickly patted the twist of braids on her head, then brushed down the fur on the collar and sleeves of her vest. The snow-white rabbit fur was soft against her neck, and a lovely contrast to the dark tan of her skin and the midnight black of her hair. The breast of the light tan leather vest was stitched with emerald green branches to match her  _ vallaslin,  _ while small slashes of matching silk at the waist mimicked the Anchor. The emerald green leather leggings edged with matching white rabbit fur were meant to be tucked into boots, however Fen had conveniently ‘lost’ them the evening before. Instead, she had wraps that matched the tan of the vest. Fen ran her fingers over the sleeves of the soft halla wool tunic she wore under the vest, the familiar feeling a comfort as butterflies filled her stomach. 

 

They all gathered in the courtyard, watching as the king rode in. He had a young girl who favored him sitting in front of him on the saddle, gawking at the Inquisition soldiers and the banners. A carriage followed, three small boys hanging out a window and pointing at Solona Amell. “Sol! Sol!”

 

From Cullen’s side, she blushed and waved at the little boys. Cullen raised and eyebrow and she shrugged at him, then said under her breath, “I delivered all of them, what can I say?”

 

Fen smiled as King Alistair handed the little girl down to one of the footmen, then dismounted and took her hand. She immediately pulled on it, saying in a piping voice, “Look, Papa, there’s someone I can play with!”

 

Lady Morrigan stiffened when the king looked over at her. His eyes widened as his gaze shifted down to Kieran, then inclined his head as if asking a question. Morrigan nodded, one terse shift of her head. He paused, then nodded. Fen looked at Leliana, the question clear on her face. Leliana’s shoulders lifted, a dazed and bewildered expression crossing her own features.

 

“I am pleased to meet you under better circumstances, Lady Inquisitor Lavellan. And hello again Leliana. You’re looking well. ” King Alistair’s greeting startled Fen’s attention back to him. He smiled, and chuckled at her surprise. Leliana also laughed and hugged Alistair, then stepped back so he could bow over Fen’s hand and kiss it.

 

“Please, Your Majesty, Fen’lath or Fen. My ambassador may murder me in my sleep for it, but I don’t stand on ceremony.” 

 

He laughed. “Then you must call me Alistair at my request. After all, if I ask you to be informal with me, she can’t get that mad, can she?”

 

“One can hope, Your-Alistair. And who is this young lady?” Fen knelt down to greet his daughter eye-to-eye. “Am I correct in guessing you are Princess Moira, Your Grace?”

 

“Yes, Miss Inquisitor.” The Princess curtsied with a dignity unexpected for a seven-year-old. “You have a very pretty castle.”

 

“Thank you, Your Grace. If your Papa will allow it, I bet my commander and Lady Enchanter Solona can show you the castle and take you to the garden to play with Lady Morrigan’s boy, Kieran.” Realizing that she might be offering something Morrigan wouldn’t agree to, Fen inclined her head to Morrigan, “That is, if his mother agrees, of course.”

 

Again the king gave Morrigan an odd look. Then, “Would you mind if Moira and Kieran got a chance to play together some before we leave, Morrigan? Moira has very few children near her age in Denerim.”

 

Kieran piped up, “May I, Mother?”

 

Morrigan hesitated, then murmured, “Once you have finished your studies for the day, little man.”

 

“Thank you, Morrigan. Honestly.” 

 

The king’s tone made Fen glance back and forth between Morrigan and Alistair, wondering what she was missing. She stood up and beckoned Cullen and Solona over. “Alistair, you already know the Lady Enchanter, since she came to join us with your blessing. You may know of our Commander, Cullen Rutherford.”

 

“Cullen! Almost didn’t recognize you without the skirt.” Alistair’s eyes sparkled with mischief. 

 

Cullen rubbed his neck and flushed, “A pleasure, Your Majesty.”

 

“Cullen, would you and Solona show Princess Moira around Skyhold? She thinks it’s very pretty.”

 

“Erm. Of course. Inquisitor. Your Majesty.” Cullen looked down at the little girl who had her arms raised, expecting to be picked up. “Right. Come along, Your Grace.”

 

Fen and Alistair were both fighting back laughter as Cullen awkwardly picked up the little girl, who immediately turned to Solona and began chattering at a mile a minute. 

 

Alistair grinned, “I wonder when Solona will let Cullen know Moira wanted to ride on his shoulders so she can see better, not be carried like that.”

 

“I give it five minutes, if she’s feeling kind.”

 

The boys were escorted up to them by a tall man with dark auburn hair and brown eyes. Alistair beamed at the three of them. “These are the princes, Maric and Bryce, and the young Teyrn Duncan Surana. This is my brother-in-law, Teyrn Fergus Cousland. He’s here to help us wrangle these three howling demons.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet Your Graces.” Fen knelt again. The boys bowed. Fen understood why Leliana had forewarned her not to make a fuss over Teyrn Duncan’s appearance. You’d have to be blind, deaf, comatose and Tranquil not to pin him as the King’s son immediately. The boy probably had no idea how much upheaval went on behind the scenes because he was elf-blooded, and the King’s to boot. 

 

Duncan, the youngest whom Fen placed at four-ish, lisped, “You’re an elf like my Mumma.”

 

“I am an elf!  You have sharp eyes, my lord!” 

 

“Duncan. Mumma doesn’t have the pretty painting on her face, though.”

 

“I’m a Dalish elf, Duncan. Your Mumma was born in a Dalish clan, but she wasn’t raised in one, so she didn’t get  _ vallaslin.  _ Do you like stories about elves?”

 

The serious-faced little boy nodded. Fen lifted her face to Solas, eyes pleading. He raised an eyebrow, then the other raised in surprise when he realised what the look was asking. Getting down onto his knees next to Fen, Solas bowed his head to Duncan. “I am called Solas, Duncan. I know lots of stories about the elves of Arlathan, and even some stories about your mother from Sister Leliana and Lady Solona. Would you like to hear them?”

 

Duncan’s face lit up, and he looked up and Alistair, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Behind her, Varric chuckled, “This I have to see, and write down. Can’t let Chuckles take my title of storyteller.”

 

“Go ahead, Duncan.” Alistair smiled as Solas stood and held out a hand for the boy to take. He was already speaking as they entered the keep, tone soothing and stride shortened so Duncan could keep up. 

 

“I think you’re trying to win my children over, Lady Fen.”

 

Fen gave Alistair a cheeky grin. “Children who are entertained aren’t swinging from the chandeliers or giving my ambassador heart attacks.”

 

“True enough. So, dare I ask what entertainment you have planned for these two?” He ruffled the twins’ hair. 

 

Fen drummed her fingers on her lips like she was considering, then grinned. “Your Graces know your father fought with the Qunari Arishok in the Blight, right?”

 

“Yes!” The five year olds nodded in perfect unison, beaming with excitement. 

 

“What if I told you we have our very own Qunari here with the Inquisition, and he is friends with a Tevinter mage?”

 

Teyrn Fergus made a noise of objection. Fen looked up at him and said, “I would and have trusted both men with my life, Teyrn Fergus. If you would like to join Dorian in escorting the boys down to the Herald’s Rest to meet The Iron Bull and the Chargers to put your mind at ease, I have no issue with it.”

 

“Nor do I. Dorian Pavus of House Pavus, at your service.” Dorian stepped forward and bowed with a flourish. “I can assure you, Teyrn Fergus, between myself, the Chargers, and the Bull’s tendency to mother-hen everything he believes needs it within a square mile, there will be no safer place for the princes to be than with us in the tavern.”

 

Fergus rubbed his beard and said, “I would prefer to keep an eye on them. Irrational fear of letting family members out of my sight with strangers, you know?”

 

“I don’t think that is irrational at all, Teyrn Fergus.” Fen said softly, tone somber. “Dorian?”

 

“Your Graces, my lord, follow me.” Dorian escorted them down the stairs, listening seriously as the boys started telling him about riding in the carriage to Skyhold.

 

“Lady Montilyet tells me Princess Elissa stayed in Denerim.” Fen took Alistair’s hand as he helped her up. 

 

“Indeed, she’s with Fergus’s wife, Caterina of Rialto. Caterina is a few months along with their first, and wasn’t up for travel. Arl Teagan, Bann Alfstanna, and Arl Leonas Bryland are running things while I’m here.”

 

“Why did you decide to come here, Alistair? If you don’t mind me asking?”

 

Alistair sighed, looking from Fen to Leliana. “The Landsmeet is driving me insane and I needed to get away for a bit, first of all. Second, you saved my children and me from being assassinated by the Venatori, and I felt the need to thank you in person.”

 

“That’s not all, Alistair.” Leliana gave him a knowing look.

 

“No. I… thank you. For the Wardens, that is. I may not be one in name anymore, but you never really just  _ stop _ being one. Gwyn… Lady Gwyneth would be so disappointed if she saw what Clarel had done in her absence. You’re doing so much to improve the world’s view of mages, and you’ve ensured that I don’t have to worry about keeping Orlais out of my kingdom  _ and  _ recovery from the Blight. I was short and rude when I met you in Redcliffe, and I’m hoping that we can become friends.”

 

Fen quirked up the corner of her mouth, “You know, Alistair, I’d like to think we already are.”

  
  
  



	49. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 1: Kieran gets a letter from his father (The Warden/Alistair/Loghain)
> 
> Kieran receives a letter from Alistair after the events of "Stand on Ceremony". Morrigan reads it to make sure her son's heart won't be broken.

The envelope that arrived for Kieran was plain, sealed with the burgundy wax that most Fereldans used for their letters, and her son’s name written in neat script on it. There was nothing particularly unusual about it, nothing that the Skyhold messengers would remark on. If not for the little foiled gold monogram partially hidden by the wax, no one would ever know it was from King Alistair. Morrigan stared at it, examining the seal to see if Leliana had steamed it open to read the contents first, because of course she would. There were no indications that the spymaster had gotten into the letter, for once. Perhaps she respected Morrigan and her son more than she let on. 

 

“Do you mind, little man?” She looked at Kieran. Unlike her mother, she didn’t want to intrude and dictate everything about her son’s life.

 

He nodded to her, worry in his eyes. Morrigan allowed herself a moment of resentment. Fen’lath had welcomed Alistair and his brood to Skyhold, giving her son a taste of family life with siblings. He had met the man who sired him. If the letter was Alistair rejecting her son… But that would not be the Alistair she knew. 

 

Morrigan broke the seal, unwrapping the encasing vellum, and unfolded the parchment contained inside. 

 

_ Kieran, _

 

_ Right. Yes. Just know this is the first time I’ve been allowed to write my own letter since I was crowned. Mustn’t let the king get inky fingers, or he might accidentally stab himself with his quill and die! Maker’s breath… Anyway. I’m sure you can tell I don’t really know what to say, so I’m just going with what I’m thinking. If your mother reads this, she’ll probably roll her eyes and say I’m still an idiot. I don’t think I’ve done so bad, even as an idiot. Ferelden hasn’t burned down yet!  _

 

Morrigan rolled her eyes, and muttered with a tiny smile on her face, “Idiot.”

 

_ She will most likely read this, so hello, Morrigan. Your mother and I didn’t get along during the Blight. I wouldn’t even have called us friends, but… she saved my life. Gwyneth’s too. I don’t think you’ve met Gwyneth. You’re named for someone important in her life, though, Kieran. I hope your mother told you that. Even though I can’t say we got along, I respected her for giving us a choice to live. Meeting you, I know I made the right one. Any parent would be proud of you, and it’s obvious how much your mother loves you. It’s nice to see her in a softer light. _

 

Morrigan snorted. She torment him endlessly for that the next time she saw him.

 

_ When I was your age, all I wanted, all I prayed for, was a family to love me and a place where I felt I belonged. I’m glad to see your mother has given that to you. Your sisters and brothers have that as well, but I feel sad that you don’t have companions to play with regularly like they do. When this whole ‘world is ending yet again’ business is over, I’m hoping that you and your mother would accept my invitation to come and stay in Denerim for a short while. You could meet your youngest sister, Elissa, and play with your brothers and Moira again. Maker willing, Gwyneth will be there to meet you as well. I may not ever be worthy of being called Papa, but I would like to be worthy of being your father.  _

 

Morrigan folded the parchment for a second, holding back the tears in the corners of her eyes. He was still an idiot, but the blighted man was a kind,  _ good  _ idiot. 

 

_ While you’re here, with your mother’s permission, we can go through the royal kennels to see if any of the mabari pups bond with you.  _

 

Morrigan rolled her eyes and groaned. She didn’t want to be inflicted with another drooling, flea-ridden mongrel!

 

_ Morrigan, stop rolling your eyes. You liked Hero in the end, and the pups are from his line. A mabari pup would be good company, as well when you go back to Orlais or wherever you end up next, Kieran. While we will welcome any letters you see fit to send, and all of us will write if you want us to, there is no substitute for having someone there you can talk to and loves you unconditionally.  _

 

_ I’m not sure what else to write, other than I hope I can think of more to say to you if you do come to Denerim. I would like to get to know you better, and I hope you get to know your sisters and brothers better. Since we lost my queen, and Gwyneth went on her search to cure the Warden Calling, I find myself wanting to hold onto the family I have left as much as I can. That includes you now, Kieran. _

 

_ Your father if you’ll allow it, _

 

_ Alistair _

 

Morrigan handed the parchment to Kieran, taking the opportunity to wipe away her tears quickly. If Alistair ever found out he’d made her cry, she would never hear the end of it. Her son spread the parchment across his desk and read over the letter carefully, the serious expression he’d learned in Orlais never faltering. He reached the end, and pinched his dark brows, so like hers, into the expression Morrigan had seen on Alistair’s face many times during the Blight when he was pondering over something.

 

“May we go to Denerim, Mother? I want to see my brothers and sisters.” 

 

“Are you sure, little man?” He nodded ‘yes’, amber eyes sparkling with hope. “Very well. When we are finished assisting Inquisitor Fen’lath, we will go to Denerim.”

 

“And the mabari?”

 

“ _ That _ we will have to discuss more.”

 

Crestfallen, Kieran stuck out his lower lip and mumbled, “Yes, Mother.”

 

Morrigan sighed. She supposed she was going to have to get used to the thought of being accompanied by a stench-ridden, domesticated wolf, if it would keep Kieran happy. 


	50. Serenity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A quiet moment between two of your companions as they watch your Hawke/Warden/Inquisitor doing an every day thing.
> 
> Alistair and Morrigan stand guard as Gwyneth takes a swim.

“She’s so peaceful like this.”

 

“Hmm?” Morrigan looked up at Alistair from the book she’d had her nose buried in from the moment Gwyneth had given it to her. 

 

“Look at her,” Alistair gestured at Gwyn, paddling around in the pond they’d discovered near their campsite. Her hair spread out around her shoulders like fiery seaweed, and she giggled as she splashed at a frog that plopped into the water. “She’s happy, and laughing.”

 

“As she should be. ‘Tis likely the most freedom she’s had in her life. Your Circles are prisons, not protection.” The witch rolled her eyes and went back to her book.

 

“You’re right.”

 

“What?” The book dropped into Morrigan’s lap.

 

“You’re right. Mark this date down, Morrigan, you may never hear me say that again. Gwyn didn’t get to see the sky, splash in a pond, or play with frogs for thirteen years. She also had to dodge handsy Templars who were supposed to be protecting her.” Alistair’s let out an angry huff. 

 

“She told me some of what happened. One grabbed her and bruised her so badly it hurt her to sit.” 

 

“That’s not the worst of it.” He pressed his lips together, and Morrigan saw the dangerous enemy that their foes had fallen to. Hard, angry eyes, clenched jaw, and she knew from experience he could cut a man down with one stroke, and take another out with his backswing. “Did she ever tell you what she had to do to keep them from taking it too far?”

 

“Does she know you’re talking about her secrets like this?”

 

“Do you think I would say anything about what she’s told me without her permission? I’m not a complete idiot, Morrigan.”

 

“‘Tis you who said it, not me.”

 

Alistair rolled his eyes at her, then took a deep breath. “The Kinloch Templars were betting on who could corner her and...have a go at her first. She had to ask a friend of hers to get ‘caught’ in a closet with her to save her from it. Thank the Maker the ones after her were an archdemon short of a Blight; they both had their smalls on under their robes but the Templars didn’t notice that.”

 

“To think you could have been one of those paragons of virtue and holiness,” Morrigan sneered.

 

“Just one of the many reasons I absolutely did not want to be one.” He smiled softly at Gwyn, who now had the frog in a cupped hand and was lightly stroking its skin, fascinated by the texture. The tips of her pointed ears peeped through her wet hair, droplets of water clinging to them and sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight. “Maker’s Breath, I don’t deserve her.”

 

“You really do love her, don’t you?” 

 

“More than I can say.”

 

“That’s really not saying much for you, Alistair.”

 

“Leave off, Morrigan. I can’t say because she… I can’t think, or speak when I look at her sometimes. She takes my breath away. I want to give her everything, and protect her from everything. Maker, I’ve been  _ leading _ to help take some of the strain off of her.”

 

“And if you must give her up to stop the Blight?” A raven wing brow rose.

 

“I don’t want to... I pray it doesn’t come to that.”

 

Running fingers over the branches of the leafless tree on the cover of her book, Morrigan murmured, “And if there was a way to keep her and end the Blight?”

 

Alistair raised an eyebrow at her. “I would consider it. I draw the line at putting on a dress and dancing the Remigold for the archdemon, unless Gwyn asks me. Of course, considering it’s you, I don’t doubt it would involve kicking mabari puppies or something equally despicable.”

 

“I am being  _ serious _ Alistair.”

 

“Like I said, I would consider it. It would depend on what it was, and how many people were likely to be hurt.”

 

“Everyone, if the Blight is not stopped.”

 

“Ah, now you’re being altruistic.”

 

“I am being realistic, there’s a difference. And I swear on everything I hold dear, Alistair, if you hurt Gwyneth in any way, I will turn you into a toad so hideous that even Gwyn will not find you fascinating.”

 

“Ah, there’s the Morrigan I know and loathe.”

 

A hurt look crossed Morrigan’s face so quickly Alistair wasn’t sure it had ever been there. “Gwyneth is a good person. The best and most genuine I’ve ever met. Is it truly so shocking to you that after she laid her life and safety on the line to defend me from my mother, that I would be concerned for her safety and happiness?”

 

Gwyn was still blissfully unaware of the conversation, floating on her back in the water, eyes closed and a look of peace on her face. The halo of her hair spreading out from her wreathed her in fire. Alistair was sure that this was how stories of water goddesses had started, and he would gladly be a worshipper at the feet of the one he was standing watch for, clumsy and bumbling though he may be. “Gwyn has a way of doing that, doesn’t she? Just gathers us up and somehow gets us all to work together, and we all care for her in our own way.”

 

“Indeed. Even that besotted dwarf she insisted on dragging out of Orzammar with us.” 

 

“Oghren’s not too bad. In small doses. If you’re upwind of him.”

 

“You do not have to deal with what he believes passes as charm.”

 

“I am truly blessed in that regard.” Alistair eyed the sun’s angle. “We’re going to have to drag her out soon, it’s getting late and she’ll need to dry and redress before we get back to camp.”

 

As if responding to an unspoken cue, Hero came dashing out of the underbrush, barking and bounding past Alistair and Morrigan before taking a flying leap into the pond. Gwyneth went under in a tangle of mabari and flailing limbs. Surfacing, she shrieked at the dog that was now serenely paddling to the banks and shaking itself off. 

 

“I think the flea-ridden beast is trying to tell you it’s time to head back to camp,” Morrigan called while Alistair braced himself against a tree and laughed. 

  
  
  
  
  



	51. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Your Warden finds out about the Kirkwall explosion and what Anders has done. Later Anders appears at Vigils Keep to ask for sanctuary. The Warden reacts. (If Anders is dead in your verse, then just go with the first half of the prompt)
> 
> Gwyneth finds out Anders was responsible for Kirkwall.

There had been rumors coming in from the Free Marches for days about Kirkwall. Both Solona and Gwyneth had been getting harsh, judgemental stares every time they appeared in public, and it was starting to make Gwyn angry. Neither of them had done anything!

 

It had been over a week when Solona slid into Gwyn’s quarters, finding her at her desk. Letters, papers, and matters of state spread over the oak, and the Chancellor herself scribbling away in response. “Gwyn. I’ve had a letter.”

 

“Hmm?” She looked up from her papers, “A letter? From whom?”

 

“My cousin.”

 

Gwyn swallowed. She did and didn’t want to know what was inside. Her stomach filled with butterflies. “What does it say?”

 

“I think you should read it.” Solona held out the parchment. With great reluctance and a building feeling of dread, Gwyn took it from her. The Champion didn’t have the best handwriting, so it took her awhile to figure out what was written.

 

_Dear Cousin,_

 

_Well, if the letters introducing myself and such weren’t awkward enough, Sol, this one is going to top them all. I’m guessing by now rumors have been flying around Denerim about the Kirkwall Chantry and the Circle. No, I didn’t turn into a dragon (not that I’ve never wanted to), bathe in the blood of the Grand Cleric, run naked through the Gallows, or use blood magic to coerce the Templars into an orgy. I am also not the one who destroyed the Chantry._

 

 _I may have mentioned in one of my other letters that one of my_ ~~_friends_ ~~ _acquaintances was an ex-Grey Warden mage. What I didn’t mention is that he was an abomination. A Spirit of Justice, or so he kept claiming it was. I believe he knew you and the Hero at Kinloch Hold._

 

Gwyn let out a horrified squeak. Anders. She had suspected Anders was the mage helping Fereldan refugees in Kirkwall, and had led all the Templars trying to find him astray. Now, she regretted that.

 

 _I don’t know when it happened, or if there was even anything left of the man and not the supposed spirit even when we met. It was Vengeance, not Justice. He brought me into this, Sol. He_ _lied_ _to me, and told me he was making a potion to separate himself from the spirit, then used me to gather ingredients for the bomb that blew the Chantry to the Void._ ~~_Grand Cleric Elthina was no great loss_ ~~ _I’m not so torn up about the Grand Cleric, as she had ignored my pleas to do something about Knight-Commander Meredith for years-be glad you were sent to Kinloch Hold, cousin, events of the Blight notwithstanding- and just kept prattling about not being ‘that powerful’ and ‘being neutral’. Neutral my Fereldan mage arse. If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor._

 

_The people of Kirkwall trusted me to protect them, though. In that I acted far too late. I should have told my companions that I was planning to go to Val Royeax to petition Divine Justinia to replace her and Meredith. Perhaps then- but it is too late to think of what might have been. I can guarantee that the man himself will not be able to do this again._

 

Setting the letter down, Gwyn looked at Solona, “This is my fault, too, isn’t it?”

 

“No, Gwyn! Anders was his own man, and even had he not Joined as a Grey Warden, he was a master at finding trouble and escaping. It was only a matter of time.”

 

“How can you say that? I helped him destroy his phylactery and led astray every Templar that came to Denerim looking for help finding him.”

 

“He was a Grey Warden, he wasn’t under Chantry purview anymore anyway, and they knew that.”

 

“But-”

 

“No, Gwyn. You’ve taken responsibility for plenty that wasn’t your fault, don’t take this on as well.”

 

She picked up the letter once more.

 

_He is dead. By my own hand, and it was awful. I had a bit of a breakdown, and I keep wondering why this one? I’ve taken plenty of lives, helping people and killing people is what I do best. I made sure the spirit in his body couldn’t drag him anywhere else to do the same thing. That’s good, right? Sol, cousin, if you talk to any other mages, please, please, tell them that he’s not a martyr or a hero. He’s a foolish, stupid man who didn’t take the dangers of joining with a spirit seriously. You and the Hero of Ferelden are proof enough that mages can do more good outside the Circle than within, and I fear that a full-fledged rebellion will lead to the Right being invoked on innocent mages, as it was here._

 

 _Fenris and I are leaving Kirkwall, for safety’s sake. I will send word when I can, but for your own safety, I will not tell you where we are or where we are going. My Uncle Gamlen is safe, his house was unaffected by the Chantry rubble, and our cousin Charade is safe as well. Carver_ ~~_the stubborn git_ ~~ _has decided to stay in Kirkwall to help what’s left of the guard and the Order clean up. Please keep yourself safe, cousin mine. I do not have so many relatives left that I can spare one._

 

_With love_

 

_Marian Hawke_

 

Putting her head in her hands, Gwyn began to weep. Stupid, _stupid_ Anders. She couldn’t reconcile the man who had slain a Grand Cleric and injured or killed a large part of a city with the young man who had taken a frightened six year old elf girl under his wing when she arrived at Kinloch. Nor the abomination with the healer who would hold her in his lap and sing to her when she was ill, and feed her broth and tea until she was better.

 

Now he was dead, and the guilt for it would burden her forever.

  



	52. Champion, Inquisitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: HLTA Chain from DAI: Hawke meeting the Inquisitor from their pov.
> 
> Marian Hawke meets Fen'lath Lavellan.

Marian waited in the shadows of the doorway, nerves making her wring her hands together. Varric had reassured her that the Inquisitor was a reasonable woman, and as a Dalish, less invested in the Chantry than her advisors were. Maker, she had nearly vomited in fear when she had spotted Cullen earlier. The specter of the Chantry still loomed in the back of her mind, and the fear that someday Maureva would be taken from her and forced into a Circle. She knew she shouldn’t really worry about Cullen anymore, though.

 

Carver had written that the former Knight-Captain was less contemptuous of mages than he had been when she left Kirkwall, which Marian supposed had to be true for him to agree to work under one in the Inquisition, and for him to stay with them after the mages from Redcliffe were recruited. Now her concern was the Inquisitor herself. Supposedly, she was far less flighty than Merrill, and much more personable than Marethari. 

 

The rumble of Varric’s voice rose up to her, and she spotted the top of his head and a surprisingly solid female elf behind him. She was still slim, but rather than appearing stick-thin and fragile like Merrill and the alienage elves, she had curves and a fullness to her face. The only other elf she’d seen as filled out as Fen’lath Lavellan was Fenris. Although, as Fen’lath passed close to join Varric on the parapet, she could see the visible strain on the elven woman’s face. 

 

The lines that marked the strain of leadership surrounded her mouth and eyes, although she appeared to have been fortunate enough to avoid disturbed sleep, as she had no dark circles below her eyes. Her  _ vallaslin _ were pretty, and Marian made a mental note to ask Merrill whose they were. Varric signalled for her to come out, and she stepped out into the crisp, clear sunlight.

 

“Inquisitor, meet Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

 

“Though I don’t use that title much, anymore.” Marian grimaced at Varric and gave him a half-hug before shoving him jovially.

 

“Hawke, the Inquisitor,  Fen’lath Lavellan. I figured you might have some friendly advice about Corypheus. You and I did fight him, after all.”

 

As Varric stepped away, the Inquisitor was looking at her oddly. Now that she was closer, Marian got a sense she knew the Inquisitor from somewhere. Those odd Fade-green eyes would stick out anywhere, and she had the feeling she’d seen them before. Fen’lath’s eyes widened, and she gasped, “You! You used my tent before the Conclave!”

 

Marian felt the blood drain from her face. The Dalish ‘scout’ whose tent she had used to feed Maureva. The Inquisitor was that scout. Andraste, she knew about her daughter. “Fen’lath… Inquisitor…”

 

Fen’lath grabbed her arm and pulled her further away from the guards patrolling the fortress walls. Her voice was low, and she tilted her head so her mouth was shadowed, a precaution against lip-reading. “Are they here with you?”

 

“N-no. I left them back home.”

 

The Inquisitor visibly relaxed. “Good,” she sighed, “Good. There are some people here who I imagine wouldn’t hesitate to strike against your beloved or your child. I assume Varric knows, does Cullen?”

 

“Maker, no.” Marian let out a relieved laugh. “Varric, my friends in Kirkwall, my brother, Prince Sebastian, a healer in Rivain, an Antivan Crow we trust implicitly, and the household staff that he and Varric screened for us.” 

 

“Mmm.” Fen’lath drummed her fingers against her lips. “More people than I’d like, but considering only one of them is here, I think the secret is safe. Children are precious, and I will guard my knowledge of your daughter with my life.”

 

Marian smiled.  She liked the Inquisitor. “Then I should probably help you with that little Corypheus problem, shouldn’t I?”

  
  



	53. The Road Not Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The path not taken. Write an Alternate Universe version of events, where your OC went one way in a quest, but in this version, had made an entirely different choice?
> 
> Marian spares Anders during The Last Straw, and how it changes later events.

_ Marian watched Anders slink out of the Gallows courtyard. He had escaped Kinloch Hold seven times, supposedly. Of course he would know a way out of the Gallows that would get him past Meredith and her Templars. Her stomach knotted. Maybe she should have killed him. What if, as she suspected, the man she knew as Anders was gone, and the abomination walking away from her was essentially Vengeance wearing the body with just enough of Anders left to pass as him? And then there was Sebastian. His friendship with Fenris was in ruins, to say nothing of his friendship with her.  _

 

_ She turned her face up to the smoke-filled sky, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Near seven years of friendship dashed in an instant, because she could not help but see Father and Bethany when Anders presented his back to her, hoping to become a martyr for his cause. Marian knew in her heart, though, that her father would have said ending Anders was a good choice. There was no doubt he was an abomination now, despite his protestations to the contrary.  _

 

_ When this was over, if they survived the confrontation with Meredith, they would have to flee like Anders. She could only pray that Sebastian would let go of his anger at her and remember that Elthina had presented one face to him and another to the suffering of the people of Kirkwall under Meredith. Of all things, she didn’t think she could bear it if they suffered yet more because of her. _

 

* * *

 

Hunter Fell was an odd mixture of Tevene and Nevarran architecture, and crowded beyond belief. Still, this is where Varric’s connections had managed to secure a house for them, and this was where their child would be born. The Amell fortunes were still vast thanks to her dwarven friend’s careful investments, and the house was on the outer edges of the city, where the smoke and press of bodies was less dense.    
  
Fenris hovered as much as he could while sitting next to her, as he had since she had discovered she was with child in Tantervale. The back-alley clinic had made her think of Anders, as had the apostate healer. She was tired, so tired of moving around. Since leaving Kirkwall, they had not been able to find a place to call a safe haven for more than a few months. Rivain was safest, but staying in Dairsmuid for too long was a temptation for anyone looking to make a quick fortune off the two fugitives. Antiva had too many Crows, and with only one Zevran to stand between them and the pair on the run, it was better not to tempt fate.

 

Too many knew that Marian was Fereldan, and that King Alistair had offered her a position in his court when he’d visited Kirkwall. Her cousin Solona was the court enchanter, and Marian wouldn’t do anything to compromise that for her. Orlais was full of Orlesians, and the Free Marches were distinctly unwelcoming. Fenris had sent a few letters to Sebastian, and while he had been friendly to her beloved, he had not been open to offering them assistance or sanctuary. There were rumors that Starkhaven was planning to march on Kirkwall to annex it if the city wasn’t able to get itself straightened out, to Aveline’s dismay. The other Marcher cities wouldn’t want to get involved, so they were only stops on the trail to nowhere. 

 

Varric had contacts in the Anderfels and Nevarra, and when he had received word of a little Hawke on the way, he had offered to look in those two nations for a place to live. Considering the unmatched piety of the people in the Anderfels, they’d put the kibosh on that idea pretty fast. Nevarra it was, and Hunter Fell would be there home for now. Who knew if they would be able to stay and raise their child here. At the moment, Varric was working on figuring out how to get Merrill and Carver out of Kirkwall without Knight-Commander Cullen finding out so Merrill could deliver Marian’s baby when the time came. 

 

Poor Fenris was ill at ease, since Mortalitasi walked the streets freely when they had passed through Nevarra City. Even in Hunter Fell, Marian didn’t need to worry about using her halberd instead of her staff while walking about. The hired cart that was taking them to their new home rumbled along the streets, and allowed her to rest her aching feet. 

 

They had cut it far too close for Marian’s comfort. By her best estimate, they had a month, two at most, before they became parents in truth. If Varric’s silver tongue and gold-filled purse didn’t work… if Merrill couldn’t make it…

 

She clutched Fenris’s hand, “I don’t want to have our baby with a stranger.”

 

He grunted, and rubbed the back of her hand with his own. “The dwarf hasn’t failed us yet, he will get the witch to us in time.”

 

“I hope so.” Marian leaned her head on his shoulder. His regular armor was set aside for Crow armor that Zevran had modified for him. It wasn’t comfortable to lean on, per se, but it also wasn’t spiky like normal. All of their worldly possessions fit into one crate on the cart, and Varric promised that more would come once it was safe to get everything out of Kirkwall. Aveline and Donnic had protected the estate and Orana. 

 

The cart stopped in front of the little house. The choking Nevarran incense wasn’t so strong, and the houses further apart, allowing the occupants some privacy. They thanked the cart driver, and tipped her with a few coins. Fenris hefted the crate and waited for Marian to unlock the door, then they both entered the house. It was bigger than Gamlen’s apartment, and the little house in Lothering, but Marian found herself longing for the space of the estate. Nothing here felt like home. There wouldn’t even be the dog smell, since Valor had given his life protecting her when they were set on by bandits outside of Cumberland on their way to Hunter Fell. She was too far gone to cast without protection for the baby, and her potions had run out just before they had arrived in the coastal city. 

 

Fenris set down the crate, and unslung his sword from his back to prowl around and ensure the house was secure. She sat on top of the crate, stretching her legs and back, contemplating hiring a runner to fetch food from a bakery or cheesemonger when Fenris roared from the back of the house. 

  
“Get out of my house, mage!”

 

A voice she’d never thought to hear again responded, “Please, Fenris, I’m just here to help. Perrine sent me. She recognized Marian.”

 

“I told you to get out, abomination! Don’t you dare speak her name, you are unworthy of it!”

 

“I can’t leave if you’re going to keep me pinned to the wall, you know.”

 

“ _ Anders? _ ” Marian waddled as quickly as she could, and found Fenris with Anders flat against the wall, the tip of the greatsword at his throat and both men blazing blue. “What in the blighted Void are you doing here?”

 

He flinched at the coldness of her tone. “Perrine recognized you, told me you were with child. I used what contacts I could with the mage underground to find you. How could you trust that bloodmage to help you give birth? I had to come to help.”

 

“At least ‘that bloodmage’ didn’t kill hundreds of people while lying to me to do it.”

 

“I deserve that. I do. But I’m a spirit healer, above all else. I should be here to help you if anything goes wrong, Hawke.”

 

Marian raked her eyes over him. He’d grown out a ragged beard, and she could see he was gaunt beneath the tattered robes he wore. She looked at Fenris, and he snarled, but stopped glowing and lowered the sword while muttering in Tevene. “You can stay, for now. If Varric isn’t able to send Merrill from Kirkwall in time for the birth, you can attend me. However, if I get word from him that Merrill is coming, you will leave the moment she steps through that door, and I don’t ever want to see you again for any reason. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Anders sighed, and nodded. “I suppose that’s the best I can ask for. You have a mudroom, I can sleep in there so I’m not in the way.”

 

Watching him heft a small pack and give Fenris a wide berth, Marian wondered if she should have just killed him, and if that would have made a difference in how things had turned out at all. 


	54. Green-Eyed Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A companion or family member realizes that your OC is in love.
> 
> Isabela realizes Hawke is falling for Fenris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, if you're an Isabela fan, you're probably not going to like this.

It was sickening, in Isabela’s opinion. Hawke was monopolizing all of the delectable elf’s time and attention, and he never even once glanced her way or responded to any of her advances with anything but a long-suffering tolerance.

 

They just needed to bed each other, and then Isabela could have her turn with Fenris. Well, maybe more than just a turn. The way he swung that giant sword around was just tantalizing. The splits in his jerkin teased the eye with flashes of taut bronze flesh, and she had long determined that she wanted to bed him. She had hoped to get him before Hawke to get on the other woman's nerves, but such was life.

 

Anders came to her and did that thing with the electricity whenever he got too frustrated with Hawke’s lack of attention. Normally, getting a good lay on the regular would keep her happy, but knowing it was because he wanted someone else… The extra sting was that it was Hawke. Hawke the Goody-Good. Hawke who never let Isabela lift the undeserved wealth from the prats in Hightown, and stopped bringing her on jobs when she figured out that Isabela was pocketing small bits and bobs while they were in the mansions. Isabela’s share of the Deep Roads money was enough to keep her room paid for and the ale coming, but she wanted more. If she didn’t get to go on jobs, she didn’t get a share of the money. No extra money meant no Blooming Rose, and nothing to set aside for a new ship. Damn Hawke for keeping her from work over a few pieces of easily fenced trash that the knobs in Hightown never noticed where missing anyway.

 

“Andraste’s knickerweasels. Hawke, when have you had time to get better at Wicked Grace, what with moving up to Hightown and meeting with the Viscount and such?” Anders groused as Hawke giggled and scraped up the winnings from the hand.

 

“Just lucky, I guess!” Green eyes sparkled with mischief as the mage kicked back, leaning on Fenris’s shoulder as the rest of the table groaned and quipped at her. 

 

Maker’s balls, if she had to listen to ‘Hawke this, Hawke that’ any more, she was going to scream and throw a tankard at someone’s head. Even bedding Carver wasn’t an escape, since he would still bitch endlessly about his sister. One would think that becoming a Templar, making the choice for himself and flaunting it in front of his mage sibling would pull his head out of his hindquarters, but no. Before and after, ‘Marian this, Marian that’. 

 

Isabela shifted in her seat at the table, waiting for the rest of the crew to place their bets for the next round. She would normally be leaving to go bed the prat to get under Hawke’s skin, but every time she mentioned the oaf, Kitten got the saddest look on her face before seeing her off. Poor girl was stuck on the absolute worst man for her, but Isabela reluctantly stopped visiting him so she didn’t hurt Merrill’s feelings.

 

Gulping down a mouthful of swill, the pirate narrowed her eyes at Hawke as she leaned her shoulder against Fenris’s again. Any time Isabela attempted to touch him, even just by brushing by, he tensed up and got all prickly. She grimaced to herself. Was she  _ jealous? _

 

The ugly feeling in the pit of her stomach grew stronger when Fenris leaned in to hear something Hawke murmured to him. It was ridiculous. He’d tire of Hawke and her limited charms soon enough, and then Isabela would have her turn, she was sure of it. There was no reason for her to feel this way. The two pairs of green eyes across the table met and something sparkled in Hawke’s as a gentle smile crossed her face.

 

Oh.  _ OH. _

 

Stupid, stupid girl. You didn’t  _ fall in love _ . You took what you wanted from men and women, and then left while you were still ahead. Isabela took another swig, hiding a smug grin. Hawke the Perfect was setting herself up for heartache and pain, and when the time came, Isabela hoped she would get to rub her face in it.

  
  


 


	55. Sit in Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Maryden sings a song about an Inquisitor's Judgement.
> 
> Maryden sings of the judgement of Gereon Alexius.

_ The Judgement of Alexius _

 

_ The first it was since the loss of Haven. _

_ Destroyed in battle ‘gainst magister craven. _

 

_ In the great hall did our story unfold _

_ There in the keep known as Skyhold _

 

_ Upon her great throne sat Inquisitor high _

_ While sad prisoner was dragged under her eye. _

 

_ Broken and beaten, abandoned by all _

_ Even the Vint thought axe would fall. _

 

_ Sit in Judgement, _

_ Inquisitor, Inquisitor. _

_ Sit in Judgement, _

_ Wise and fair. _

_ Sit in Judgement,  _

_ Inquisitor, Inquisitor. _

_ Our witness we bear. _

 

_ A horror-twisted future ‘twas said she held back _

_ Her voice harsh and lashing, like a whip it did crack. _

 

_ For love of a child had the Vint done the deed, _

_ A future his own, he no longer saw need. _

 

_ He taunted and insulted with every breath. _

_ Begging in silence for a swift death. _

 

_ Our Inquisitor, elf-woman born wild and free _

_ Did in that moment an alternative see. _

 

_ Sit in Judgement, _

_ Inquisitor, Inquisitor. _

_ Sit in Judgement, _

_ Wise and fair. _

_ Sit in Judgement,  _

_ Inquisitor, Inquisitor. _

_ Our witness we bear. _

 

_ She gave her judgement from heart kind and brave, _

_ A merciful fate for the treacherous knave. _

 

_ A life with books, paper and quill, _

_ Researching magic is what she did will. _

 

_ For the magic of Redcliffe was strange and rare, _

_ Serve the Inquisition, sentence just, right, and fair. _

 

_ Spread peace and justice 'cross all the land _

_ With light-hope resting in the palm of her hand. _

 

_ Sit in Judgement, _

_ Inquisitor, Inquisitor. _

_ Sit in Judgement, _

_ Wise and fair. _

_ Sit in Judgement,  _

_ Inquisitor, Inquisitor. _

_ Our witness we bear. _

 

_ —As written and performed by the bard Maryden Halewell _


	56. Questioning Beliefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform Prompt
> 
> Fen'lath reacts to the revelations of Jaws of Hakkon, meeting Ameridan, and the fall of the Dales.

With the accuracy of one raised with the knowledge that a miss could result in not eating that day, Fen’lath removed her dragonbone and silverite helm and hurled it. It crashed into the desk her people had set up in the holding Stone-Bear had given the Inquisition to use, shattering the inkwell and vase she had been aiming for. Ink and water splattered over the letters waiting for her, broken bits of glass, pottery, and bruised flowers scattering across the splatters. 

 

Trembling, she ran her fingers through her hair, taking deep breaths and pushing away the sibilant whispers of the Rage demons pressing against the Veil. The last thing she needed was to lose control and let one of them in. Angry tears burned under her eyelids, and the comments from Cassandra, Dorian, and even Ameridan rang in her ears. 

 

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra stood in the doorway, uncertain, but unintimidated by the display of anger. 

 

“In Haven, you asked me, if there’s no room for one more among the Dalish gods. Do you remember?” Fen rasped out, turning towards Cassandra, stalking to her and sticking an accusing finger in her face. “You asked me, as if it would somehow make a difference in how the Dalish are treated if we were to just slip the Maker in amongst our own.”

 

“I don’t understand?” The Seeker stepped back, taken off-guard by the vitriol in Fen’s voice. 

 

“Ameridan! He worshipped our gods and the Maker, there were elves who worshipped both in the original Chantry and Seekers, and it changed  _ nothing!  _ Our land, the land  _ your prophetess _ promised us without condition, was torn from us for not bowing to your Chantry!”

 

With a snarl, Cassandra stepped forward, “The Dales left Orlais to fight the Blight alone!”

 

“Tell me, Cassandra, if you were to hear that Tevinter massacred an entire village of people who wouldn’t even take up arms against them, and then some time after, they asked for help against a Blight, indicating that the military leader responsible for that slaughter would be leading the forces against the darkspawn, would _you_ trust them?”

 

“What does this have to do with the Dales?”

 

“Answer the question, Cassandra.” 

 

Cassandra’s deep brown eyes raked over Fen. “I would not trust them, I admit.”

 

“Then why, pray tell, do you believe the Dales should have just fallen in line under Kordillus Drakon after he slaughtered the Daughters of Song? I know they weren’t elven, but I’ve read about them all the same.”

 

The Seeker reared back. “They were heretics!”

 

“According to whom? There was no one speaking directly for your Maker then, and if my reading at Haven and Skyhold is correct, Drakon just killed anyone who didn’t accept his way. There were elves that followed the Creators and the Maker. The Blight was an excuse his Chantry used to send an Exalted fucking March into another sovereign nation for not toeing their line.” 

 

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, and her jaw worked. Fen could tell she was fighting with her temper after having her faith questioned. 

 

Fen turned back to her desk and leaned on the edge, avoiding the mess of water and ink. “With every new thing I learn, Cassandra… I like your Andraste, but Creators help me, I do not like many of your Andrastians.”

 

“Inquisitor… Fen’lath-”

 

“Do you think the Chantry will decide that I was martyred in their name killing Corypheus before or after I morph into an elf from the Wycome alienage? When will they decide I was Andrastian instead of Dalish?”

 

The Seeker remained silent. After meeting Ameridan, and knowing personally what had happened with Shartan, she couldn’t in good conscience say that wouldn’t happen.

 

“After that, how many years until it’s unacceptable for the Herald of Andraste to have been an elf at all, and they cut off my ears like they did with Shartan and Ameridan? What Age will it be when I’m an oddly named human woman who was called to the Conclave by the Maker to strike down the high priest of the false god Dumat wielding the power of a false elvhen god?”

 

“I don’t know, Fen’lath. But I give you my word, when I rebuild the Seekers…” She shifted uncomfortably, struggling with the admission that the Chantry had buried the elves in their history,  “I will make sure to record all of this as accurately as I can, and this will all be made public. Josephine will be informed. Mages and elves will be welcomed, as they were before.”

 

“Thank you, Cassandra.” Fen rubbed her forehead. “Every time I get a glimpse of what we were… We were a mighty people once. The Dalish had a home, our people weren’t shoved into the worst corners and spat on as vermin while the cities around us were raised on the labor of our backs. Elves are slaves in everything but name in Orlais.”

 

“I wish I could disagree with you.” Leaning against the desk next to Fen, Cassandra asked, “Do you ever question your faith?”

 

Fen let out a short laugh, “All the time. But I would rather question my faith and try to find the answers in the flaws than follow blindly.”

 

Cassandra grunted. “I will try to be more open-minded when it comes to the Dalish beliefs. You have been forced by circumstance into a position considered to be part of the Chantry, so it is only fair, I suppose.”

 

Fen placed a gentle hand on the Seeker’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. Cassandra nodded to her. Under her breath, Fen muttered, “You’d better.”

  
  



	57. Silence of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform Prompt
> 
> Fenris has a sleepless night a week after Marian leaves for Skyhold.

One week. It was driving Fenris insane already, but Marian’s logic had been sound. Varric had written asking for her help, and she needed to go. Maureva was long weaned, and they needed to guarantee that one of her parents was there for her should the worst happen. He paced the hallways of their holding, the Starkhaven night too quiet. When Marian was there, it was never too quiet. She was rustling in the bed, or snoring thanks to the broken nose Meredith had given her.

 

Silently he padded into the nursery to watch Maureva sleep in her crib. His little girl was two now, squealing ‘Papa!’ when she saw him in the morning and running to him when she wanted his attention. Her black hair was definitely Marian’s, always a tangled riot of silky curls that picked up every twig, leaf, or other scrap that crossed her path. Fenris thought Maureva looked like Marian, although she and Carver swore she was the spitting image of their sister Bethany.

 

Marian was delighted that their daughter had inherited his olive eyes, but he would give anything for that to be her only link to him. He wished she was all Hawke sometimes, with none of him. His legacy was the spiderweb of lyrium veins across her soft, perfect skin. Whenever he asked Maureva about them, she told him with a vigorous shake of her head ‘there’s no hurts’, which was a relief. Fenris knew he shouldn’t let it get to him if they didn’t hurt and neither Marian nor Merrill were concerned. 

 

Maureva blinked with bleary eyes, “Mama?”

 

“No, my beauty, Mama’s still helping your Uncle Varric.” He reached into the crib and smoothed her curls back from her face.

 

Her little rosebud mouth trembled, and tears welled up. “Want Mama.”

 

“I know, Maura, I miss your mama too.” He picked her up, chubby little arms wrapping around his neck and her warm little body resting against his chest. 

 

“Do you want to have a slumber party with Papa, or shall we look at the moonlight and the forest?”

 

Resting her head in his neck, Maureva mumbled sleepily, “Moon.”

 

“Moonlight and forest it is.”

 

The early spring air was still chilly, and there was a brief stop to grab a light blanket to wrap around her. The nightdress she wore was good for sleeping in the crib with its heating runes, yet not so great for warmth out of it. 

 

Sitting on the settee, Fenris sat with Maureva facing out, so she could look through the window and see the forest in the light of the two moons. The ache for Marian came back. When Maureva had been a newborn, Marian had spent many a day planted on the settee feeding her, watching her sleep, or snuggling up with him and marvelling at the child they had created together. Blasted Inquisition. They couldn’t have clarified that they had been searching for their family to try and get Marian to lead the blighted thing, not that she would have. She had no great love for the late Divine or Sister Leliana after Meredith Stannard and Grand Cleric Elthina had been left to drag Kirkwall down for so long. 

 

He felt a chill run over his body and Fenris held Maureva closer at the realization that if Marian  _ had _ agreed to be Inquisitor, she would have been at the Conclave when it exploded. Maureva was still nursing at the time; their daughter very well could have been there, too. Even though it had not happened, he felt the panic rising at the thought that he might have lost both of the most important people in his life. If something happened to Marian while she was with the Inquisition, he would be devastated, yet he would carry on for their daughter because she  _ needed  _ him. Should something happen to both of them... Maureva let out an uncomfortable squeak, letting him know he was holding her too tight. 

 

Shushing her, Fenris adjusted her and turned his face into the mop of midnight curls on her head. Before his daughter, Marian had been the single most important person in his life. Maureva let out a huff against his neck, slipping back into sleep with an ease he envied. He prayed that he’d never have to choose between Marian and Maureva, he didn’t know if he could. Standing carefully, he turned towards the bedroom. 

 

Sleep. He needed to try and sleep. The baby would be up far too early, and even though Orana was as reliable as the sun rising and setting, Fenris wanted- no, needed- to spend every moment possible with her. The large, empty bed was a mess, evidence of his prior failed attempt at sleep. With one hand, he rearranged the pillows and straightened the sheets, making a small wall to prevent Maureva from rolling off the bed. He laid her down, smiling despite himself when he noted she did the same jelly-necked head-bob Marian did when being put to bed by someone. Her light blanket was laid over her and tucked around her feet to keep her toes from getting cold, and then Fenris climbed into bed himself. 

 

Maureva didn’t make the same amount of noise Marian did, but her breathing helped break the silence. One small hand curled next to her face, and Fenris reached out to hold it in his. So small and perfect, and part of him. He would send a raven ahead to Varric so Marian would have a letter to greet her when she arrived. She would write back right away like she always did. Out of habit, Fenris tucked his hand under his pillow. His fingers struck the buckle of the belt he’d snagged from the packs on Marian’s horse. 

 

Letting go of Maureva’s hand, he pulled the belt out and propped himself up, holding it to his nose. It smelled like her, ozone, burnt ether, copper, and herbal soap. He wrapped the belt around his hand and laid back down. Tucking the wrapped hand up next to his face, he reached out and took the baby’s hand again. Now, definitely, he could sleep. 

 


	58. Prayer of the Forsaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freeform prompt
> 
> Gwyneth has a one-on-one with Andraste the night before Alistair marries Elissa Cousland.

Gwyneth nodded to the guards as she walked through the halls of the Denerim palace. It had been a short ttime since the end of the Blight, but they already knew the petite redheaded elf by sight as well as they knew King Alistair. Chancellor as well as Warden-Commander of Ferelden, she was a force to be reckoned with, and none of them would question why she was roaming the palace halls instead of sleeping the night before the king’s wedding to Elissa Cousland. 

 

Her slippers made a faint scuffing noise on the flagstones as she climbed the steps to the royal cathedral and she slipped inside, avoiding Chantry sisters and lay brothers as she ducked into the tiny private chapel that was usually guaranteed to be vacant at this time of night, and especially this night of all nights. The Denerim Cathedral was as decorated as the recovering nation could afford,. Paper bunting and sprays of flowers graced the pews, grown by the citizens both human and elven who had survived the chaos.

  
  


The chapel for the royal family and those like Gwyneth who had permission to use it was simple compared to the splendour outside the doors. An unadorned statue of the Maker’s Bride stood before a linen-upholstered kneeler. Immediately inside the chapel was a plain wicker basket of tapers to offer with prayers. Gwyn slid the shoes off her feet and approached the statue of Andraste, picking up a taper and lighting it with a delicate flutter of her fingers before placing it in front of the icon. Never a religious woman in the Circle, she knelt awkwardly, and clasped her hands together to pray. 

 

“This is probably going to be a bit rambly, Blessed Andraste. I don’t pray as much as I might, or as much as the Chant says I should, but...

 

Please, Lady, don’t make me regret this. Making Alistair King, that is. Or arranging for Elissa to be his Queen. Let them find some semblance of happiness together. I’m sorry for being selfish and not being able to let go of Alistair. I’m sorry for allowing Morrigan to use blood magic to keep both of us alive instead of sacrificing myself for him, and staying here as his mistress. I just couldn’t step aside and bury everything I feel for him. I hope… I pray that as another woman, you can understand that.

 

Holy Bride, he’s already grown so much as a man from the one I met at Ostagar. And Elissa… she’s been so kind and understanding, and she’s survived so much herself. Please let her be the queen he needs, that Ferelden needs. Help them be friends. Let them have the family Alistair wants so badly. Don’t let his only child be the one Morrigan’s carrying. Help them have many children, please.” 

  
  


Gwyneth’s voice broke, and she stopped to wipe away the tears that were pouring down her cheeks, “Let his reign be long, and prosperous. Guide them to the best decisions. Show Alistair what a good leader he is, despite what he believes about himself. That’s all I ask.”

 

She stood, brushing out her skirts and turning away. Gwyn started to slide her feet into the slippers, then a thought struck her. Picking up her skirt and flicking the shoes away quickly, she hustled back to the kneeler.  Clasping her hands in prayer again, “One last request, Blessed Andraste. Please let Anora Mac Tir see reason and give up her claim to the throne, for everyone’s sake. Mostly mine. It may be a little selfish, but I have enough on my plate between being Chancellor, Warden-Commander, and Arlessa. Being Teyrna on top of all that is just- too much. Please.”

 

Standing and straightening herself again, she gazed up into the statue’s face. Whomever had sculpted this effigy had given Andraste a harsh, disapproving expression, the same as the one in the Circle Tower. The one she could vaguely remember from the little chapel in Highever had a kind, almost motherly expression. Emboldened by the statue’s glare, Gwyneth stood at the base, bare-footed and proud.

 

“I swear on my own life, Andraste, if anything happens to Alistair, I will make the Archdemon look like a mewling kitten. The world will burn before I let something happen to him. Unlike the Maker, I do not abandon those I love to their fate as if I were helpless.” Gwyn waited with bated breath, expecting to be struck where she stood.

 

Instead, her taper sputtered momentarily in a draft, and the murmur of the laysisters and brothers finishing up the preparations for the wedding drifted through the door. Feeling she had made her point, and somewhat surprised she hadn’t burst into flames or been struck by lightning for blasphemy, Gwyn put the slippers on. Squaring her shoulders and holding her head high, she stepped back into the main cathedral.

 

One of the laysisters shrieked in surprise, stepping back and clutching her chest. “My Lady Chancellor! When- how?!”

 

“I’m sorry I frightened you, Sister. I just needed to unburden myself for a moment. It is a big day tomorrow, after all.” Gwyn gave her a small smile, and continued out of the cathedral. She needed sleep if she was going to keep her mask on during the wedding. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm closing out my first year of Dragon Age Reddit posts to create another one for the next year! 
> 
> I've learned so much and developed my ladies so much in the past year, I can't wait to see what's in store!


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